“TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH!”
Harrison sits in our old booth across from Izzy and taps his watch three times when I walk through the door of the Parth. Izzy, of course, has her face in her phone.
My head is on fire with what I just discovered about Per. I was too freaked out to share it with Melanie—I sent her a text saying I’d narrowed my research down to a four-hour time frame and would continue to mine the data. All true. I just didn’t happen to mention that the time frame and the data placed him in my hometown.
I need to figure out what I’m going to do next. I also need to eat. All I’ve had since last night is a mini bottle of whiskey.
Izzy and Harrison have food. And maybe they have information as well.
The Parthenon Diner is the same fluorescently lit palace as it was the last time I set foot inside. Ceiling fans turn lazily across the restaurant in their overmatched attempt to move the output from an inadequate number of air conditioner vents around the room. Regulars know which booths have the best temperature control, summer or winter, and strategize the times they eat based on likelihood of booth availability. Tables in the center are a free-for-all. Napkins blow off the tables under the fans while diners engage in a dance of sweaters on, sweaters off, ordering water with extra ice that melts before they can polish off a glass, or constantly straining over their shoulders to see if Mitzi—the lone waitress as long as I’d been coming to the Parth—happens to be on a coffee refill run and they can snag a little warmth.
Mitzi’s husband, Rocky, runs the kitchen. Of all the residents of Thebes, he is the only descendent of actual Greeks we ever knew. That seems to be his main qualification for running a Greek diner. It definitely is not his cooking. When we came on a day with few customers, only regulars, Rocky would come out from the kitchen and he and Mitzi would drink diet sodas behind the counter and entertain us with stories about their past life following the Grateful Dead around the country, selling tie-dyed T-shirts to make enough money to buy weed and tofu. They were at a concert in the Cities when an acid-fueled revelation came to Rocky—the ancient Greek goddess Athena. She told him it was time to stop following Jerry Garcia, who was a false god from a heritage not his own. He came to, sold their remaining tie-dye inventory and their Winnebago to an enthusiastic younger Deadhead, found the “other twin cities” on the map—the appropriate-to-the-vision towns of Athens and Thebes—and bought what would become the Parthenon.
Mitzi tells the story differently. “He was on a bad trip,” she says in her gravelly smoker’s rasp. “He took a tab in exchange for shirts from some shady guy and he was bugging out. I held his head all night and told him I was done. That he had to get his shit together and find us a new gig or I’d be on the next bus back to Cleveland. And then the next morning: poof! He wakes up and frigging ‘Athena’ has visited him in a dream and told him to open this crap diner.”
“It was Athena!” Rocky grumbles at this point. “She wore a toga.”
ROCKY AND MITZI HAVE LINED THE WALLS OF THE PARTH with photos of their personal heroes—Jesse Ventura, Hulk Hogan, Anthony Quinn—and one black-and-white image from their own Deadhead past: the two of them, forty years younger and collectively one hundred pounds lighter, both with long dark hair and puka shell necklaces, barefoot, leaning against the infamous Winnebago. Rocky’s arm is casually draped over Mitzi’s shoulder, and her head is tilted toward his. I pored over this photo many, many times when I was young. No adult I knew had anything like it in their known past and I was fascinated.
Has Bashiir eaten here? Do any of the Somali community of Thebes? I scan the room. Other than my cousins, only two booths and a table have any customers: all old and all white. Did any of them drive out from downtown, having worked up a hunger after all their racist sign waving?
I imagine Bashiir walking into the Parth next to me. Would heads swivel? Would Mitzi be hustling over to me like she is now, squeezing my shoulder in greeting on her way to deliver two sweaty glasses of iced tea to the booth in the back, or would she throw us a look of warning?
What am I thinking? There is no “us.” Bashiir hates me.
And Paul hated the Parth, even when we were kids, so I’m sure he never brought his roommate or his wife or any of their friends here.
It was always Harrison’s, Izzy’s, and mine. Here’s where we hid from their fancy-pants parents and my self-righteous, angry older brother and reveled in our little band of three. As I walk over to our booth to where they sit, so familiar, so reassuring, actual good memories of life in Thebes prod at me. Making Izzy laugh so hard with my imitation of her ninth-grade biology substitute teacher trying to use a microscope that she snorted chocolate milk out of her nose. The three of us ordering mozzarella sticks and fries and onion rings but asking Mitzi to bring them out separately, only after each one was done, because we wanted to extend the time we had at the Parth as long as possible. Harrison came out to me here, one frozen winter afternoon.
I slide in next to Izzy.
“Put that thing down,” I say, grabbing the phone from her hand.
“We already ordered all the things,” says Harrison. “You do know that noon happened many minutes ago.”
“Sorry, I had to catch up on a work issue.” My head starts to reel again. Do I need to grill them about Paul, or do I need to grill them about Per? Worlds colliding.
I’ll start small. “So,” I say, “what’s been happening?”
“Ooh, me first!” Izzy squeals. “Guess what?”
I bite. “What?”
“I’m officially an influencer.”
“You are?”
“Yes! On Instagram. And YouTube. I reached enough followers that now I’m sponsored by my first business.”
“Good for you.” Maybe Izzy has an actual plan to gain independence from King Family Construction. “Who is it?”
“Blushing Flower Spa. It’s where I get my mani-pedis, in the strip mall out Route 9. I know, hyper-local. But Mrs. Evanson who runs it just got bought by a franchise and the owner is from Miami! I could go national if things go well. And all I have to do to get her to promote me to the owner is make her daughter into a YouTube star.”
“Izzy, this sounds complicated. Her daughter?”
“No, it’s great! You saw Michelle—that GIF I sent you this morning was her. We shoot videos of her and then I edit them for WTF moments. Isn’t she cute? I styled her myself.”
Still Thebes-centric. But maybe there’s some ambition here. I’ll support it.
Harrison is distracted by the television mounted in the corner of the room behind Izzy’s head. He keeps glancing up at the blurry local newscast—it isn’t even a flat screen, but one of those bulky old-school boxes. He’s barely looking at us in between checking the muted broadcast and tearing fringe along the side of his straw’s paper wrapper. I reach across the table and tap the back of his hand.
“Hey, what’s up with you?”
“Huh?” he replies, as if suddenly remembering I’m not the usual daily company. “Oh, just . . . nothing.”
“Is something about the Dig on the news?” I ask. “The protest? Paul?” I stop myself before I ask about Bashiir.
“No, Dad has that under wraps for the time being. WKNW is giving us till the 10:00 p.m. news before they go out.”
“Wanna tell her why they gave us that sweet deal?” Izzy says, teasing Harrison. He blushes.
I glance back over my shoulder again at the screen. The news anchor looks exactly like she’s supposed to—red rayon form-fitting dress, beauty pageant makeup, glossy brown hair shellacked into a pouf. Her mouth is moving silently; somehow, she manages to maintain her white-toothed smile while she reads from the teleprompter.
Harrison moves from his straw paper to his napkin, continuing to create enough fringe for a rack of cowboy vests. He doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Um, well, I’m kind of involved with a producer there.”
I clap my hands. “So great, Harry! How did you meet? What’s his name?”
“It’s Matthew. I don’t want to say much though. We’re not ready to go public yet . . .”
“He’s the head of the station!” Izzy stage-whispers to me. Harrison gives her a death stare, then sighs.
“Okay, but please keep it quiet. You know it’s shady that I asked him to hold the story.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “That is about the least shady thing any member of the King family has ever done. Or, at least, admitted to doing.”
Now Harrison meets my gaze with the full force of his blue eyes. “Toni, we only have till ten tonight to keep our name out of the press. Unless we all sign the nondisclosure and agree to the statement, they’re going to run a ‘Family Divided’ story. They’ll label Paul a fugitive from the law.”
“Right. I wondered how long it would be till we got back to this.”
“Toni . . .”
My lawyer-self kicks on automatically. “Okay fine, if you want to talk business, then tell me where Paul is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Then your father knows and you’re covering for him by choosing not to know.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Hey, hey!” Izzy interjects. She puts a hand on each of our wrists. “We’re finally back together. Don’t ruin it for me by fighting.”
“Come on, Toni. We’re all concerned about Paul,” Harrison says. “If he doesn’t turn himself in or you can’t find him, we’ll take the next step and start looking. But you know there’s nothing we can do about it till then. Having it all over the local news will only hurt him, not help him.”
“You father has access to everything that happens in this town. Why does he really need my signature on those documents? Is he still so bitter about Paul leaving the family that he expects me to turn against my own brother or he won’t let me back in?”
Harrison is shaking his head.
“Toni, you were angrier at Paul for leaving than anyone. We all know that’s the reason you hate coming back. We all had to get over him, not just you. But he came home. Maybe not to live with us, but at least he’s been here in Thebes. Frankly, you’re the one who’s gone for good. Now we’ve had to get over you.”
I let the sting of his words settle between us, allowing the familiar sounds of the Parth to rise: the clatter of dirty plates in the plastic bin where Mitzi dumps them to wait for slow times when she can load the dishwasher. The sizzle of grease on iron that hums from the kitchen, the clang of metal spatula against stovetop. The thwap, thwap of overhead fans.
Harrison pressed on a bruise, and it hurts.
“Fried mozzarella sticks and an order of stuffed grape leaves on the house because Toni is the only one of you who likes ’em and, good gravy, here she is!” Mitzi sets two platters down on our table and air-kisses near my cheek.
“Hey, Mitzi,” I say, grateful for the interruption that breaks our awkward silence. Harrison is too, clearly.
“What brings you here all the way from Boston?” she asks, resting her hand on my shoulder for a moment before handing us silverware.
“Actually, I’m working in the Cities now.”
“What? Nobody told me, and I know about everyone who comes and goes between here and there!”
“It’s new,” says Harrison. “We weren’t even sure whether she’d be coming around because it’s such a huge job. Associate at a major law firm. Of course, they’re lucky to have her.”
I flash a half smile of appreciation and reconciliation at my cousin, and he reciprocates. Dear Harry—a lover, not a fighter if there ever was one.
“Mitzi, wait!” I sit up. “Do you really hear about everyone who comes to Thebes from the Cities?”
“Honey, we get one or two new folks a year max if the blizzards don’t kill us in the winter and the twisters don’t kill us in the summer. It’s not like any of ’em are building their lake homes around here.” She laughs her gruff, tar-filled laugh at her own joke.
“Has anyone come around asking about a man who was here a couple of nights ago? Blond, really good-looking, around forty. Probably wearing an expensive suit.”
“Do I look like a girl who would kiss and tell?” Mitzi laughs at herself again. “Someone like that shows up, I might have to leave this dump.”
“But did he? That you know of?”
Izzy, who had checked out when the conversation stopped concerning her, checks back in.
“Wait, Toni, who are you talking about? Do you have a boyfriend too?”
Harrison’s eyes get huge at the indirect allusion to his situation. He mouths “Shut up!” at Izzy across the table.
I, however, sense a good cover and jump on it. “Maybe,” I say. “I’m not sure yet, but there’s definitely something there.” It’s so much easier to let Izzy create stories about my life—it allows me to keep asking questions and avoid explaining what I’m after.
“Keep us posted, darlin’,” says Mitzi, filling my water glass from a sweating metal pitcher. “Meantime eat Rocky’s grape leaves and tell him how much you like ’em. Everyone else who comes here is scared to order from the ‘exotic’ side of the menu.” She waggles her eyebrows like air quotes around exotic.
I pick up one of the oily green logs and stuff it in my mouth. Flavorless, gooey rice and chopped meat that’s probably scraped from the bits that remain on Rocky’s grill after the burgers are all cooked mix with the slimy texture of the store-bought grape leaf wrap. I’ll be chewing for a while, but I wag my eyebrows back and give Mitzi an okay sign.
“Good girl. Stop me before you head out and tell me what you think of the new recipe. He’s adding sugar and lemon juice now.”
I finally swallow but before I can follow up with any more questions about Per, Mitzi moves to her next table.
“Harrison, you need to chill. You and Matthew are an adorable couple.” Izzy is unfazed as ever by her brother’s anxiety. “It’s 2014. Rainbow flags are totally in.”
“Yes, but you know where we live, Izz. Nobody around here is flying those flags.”
“Speaking of flag waving,” I say, “I passed quite the interesting scene at town hall earlier.”
Harrison nods his head. “Yep, I heard about the demonstrators. Just business as usual. The new religion is walking around with signs.”
“‘Stop the Invasion’? That’s some serious race baiting.”
“They’re like bees, Toni. Ignore them and all they’ll do is buzz. But stir them up and they’ll sting.”
“Did you see them today? Is it more than usual because of the protest last night, or was that a bunch of buzzy bees too?”
He pauses, takes his time to cut a piece of gooey fried cheese. Chews, swallows.
“The Somalis have a right to protest our Dig,” he says finally. “The locals have a right to protest the Somalis. We can make it all go away by not giving either of them any reason to get louder, or to point fingers at us.”
I put my fork down.
“Who is ‘us’?”
“The family.”
Meaning his father. “So hush-hush about racism and xenophobia,” I say. “Hush-hush about same-sex relationships. Then everything will be fine?”
“Actually, yes. If we can negotiate instead of fight, I believe it will.”
I hate Harrison’s position. But I can’t hate Harrison for it. The same little boy who believed that all he had to do was hold my hand at recess and the kindergarten know-nothings would embrace me like they embraced him, who turned his sunny face up to his father time and again for approval and never lost hope when approval didn’t come, is the kind man across the table. Naïve, but kind.
I sigh. “I believe it won’t,” I say, “but that can’t surprise you.”
“Toni, you are a total force of nature. You were made to go out in the world and change it. Me—it was my fate to be born here and maybe it’s my fate to stay here to . . . I don’t know, keep the peace? Make more peace? All this conflict gives me heartburn.”
“Fried mozzarella gives you heartburn. Conflict forces you to choose between right and wrong.”
“Didn’t Paul used to say something like that, but about truth and lies?”
Paul, twelve-year-old Paul, wrapped around dusty philosophy textbooks he brought home from the library, hiding out in the corner of the great room while the three of us argued over whatever we were playing or doing: card games, freeze tag, trying to stand on our heads the longest. I always wanted Paul to arbitrate our competitions, declare a winner and loser in every situation. His opinion mattered to me above all.
“Paul, who’s the best at cartwheels? Me, Harrison, or Izzy? I want to know the truth.”
“I’m the best at cartwheels!” Izzy, age six, spun around in a circle, pigtails flying out to the side, until she fell down, dizzy and giggling.
“That’s not cartwheels, it’s spinning!”
“It’s cartwheels to me,” she said.
“No! Cartwheels look like this!” I executed a perfect cartwheel. Harrison followed, crashing into the coffee table.
“I win!” Izzy said.
“You do not!”
“We all win!” said Harrison.
“Only one person can win! Paul, who wins?”
“Nobody wins when the truth cannot be known.”
“So tell us the truth!”
He looked up from his reading and sighed. “Plato says: Use your own eyes to see and your own heart to know. Why does anyone else’s opinion matter?”
“Ugh! You and that stupid book.”
He shrugged. So I threw myself on top of him and tickled him until he had no choice but to laugh and try to wrestle me off.
At the time I considered that a victory. Now I can see he was already halfway gone.
“USE YOUR OWN EYES TO SEE AND YOUR OWN HEART TO know. That’s what Paul used to say.”
The three of us pause for a moment, each reflecting on what that means. At least, Harrison and I do. Izzy seems pretty sure already—three quick taps in her phone and she turns it around to show us a photo of Harrison seated at a desk in what must be a news studio, what with the background filled with screens and mic equipment, looking up at a curly-haired man about ten years older than us with a moustache and his shirt sleeves rolled up focused on a set of papers. By the expression on Harrison’s face, I gather this is Matthew.
“I see with my eyes what your heart knows, Harrison,” says Izzy. “And being in love is the most important truth in the world.”
My cousin. She can be such a surprise!
Harrison is blushing, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the phone.
“You have to let me post this on my feed!” And the regular Izzy is back. “I’ll put a rainbow heart filter around it and add hashtag-love-is-love. It will totally go viral!”
Harrison gestures to Izzy to bring her phone with the photo closer to him. When she does, he snatches it out of her hand and deletes the image.
“Harrison!”
“I can’t risk it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Are you afraid Matthew will break up with you?”
“No, it’s . . . it’s different. Toni, you haven’t lived here for a long time. You don’t remember what we have to do to make things work.”
Something about the tone of Harrison’s voice makes my stomach clench.
“What things?”
His fingers are working the shredded napkins in front of him again, crumpling and uncrumpling the pile of paper.
“Family things. Business things.” He leans forward. “Okay. I’ll tell both of you this, but I am swearing you to secrecy. Promise me.”
Izzy and I exchange a quick glance. We both nod.
“Dad has promised me that I’m next in line to take over as CEO of King Family Construction, once he retires.”
“Harrison, that’s amazing!” I can’t believe it—is Uncle Christopher truly going to do right by his son?
Izzy claps her hands. “Yay, Harry!” she says. “But why do we have to keep it a secret?”
He looks down at the cheese grease on the plate in front of him. “Dad says we need to maintain the trust placed in us by the people of Thebes for the past twenty years—that we’ve always placed traditional Thebesian values at the heart of how we work.”
This is not going to be good.
“So, he asked that I make a public declaration before he makes one in return.”
“It’s Paul, isn’t it!” The words explode out of me. “Did he send you here to convince me to sign your documents in exchange for allowing you to run his company?”
Harrison looks up from his plate, genuinely startled. A sad look crosses his face.
“Toni, for once can you please not assume everything is all about you?”
Now it’s my turn to look down. Guilty as charged.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Go on.” Izzy quickly squeezes my knee under the table.
He sighs deeply. “Dad has asked me to take on a role that will help consolidate the King family’s legacy in Thebes. He’s requested that I announce my engagement. To a woman.”
I’m frozen in my seat. This is utter madness. Even Izzy, next to me, can’t think of anything to say, so completely unexpected are these words.
“It’s merely practical. Dad and I discussed it thoroughly and as long as all parties involved understand the ground rules and there’s no deception, it isn’t wrong.”
“But . . .” Izzy finally finds her voice. “What about love?”
Harrison shrugs. “We can all pursue love in lots of ways. I’m not pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes. I’m a gay man. I’ll just be a gay man in an asexual, consensual marriage to a woman.”
My head is throbbing. “Forcing you into a marriage? It’s fundamentally unjust, Harry.”
“No one’s forcing me. And my world view—by necessity—never assumed that marriage was love’s endgame. Does yours, Toni? If you’re being honest?”
“I’m not like Izzy. I don’t believe marriage is an endgame at all.”
“And can you honestly tell me you don’t know a single hetero who hasn’t made the same decision?”
I’m silent, wondering about James Hollings and his lady’s slipper. Can’t say that out loud.
“Then don’t judge me,” Harrison continues. “And Izzy, if I do this, I get to have love and more. Matthew understands. He’s the one who suggested Charlene.”
“Who’s Charlene?” I ask, at the same time Izzy’s mouth falls open and she says, “Charlene Daniels?” Harrison’s look confirms it. Izzy nods toward the television behind us, where the talking-head baton twirler still yammers on mute.
“Wait, Charlene Daniels is the news anchor?” I ask. “On the broadcast station your boyfriend runs?”
“We get along,” he says. “And the arrangement benefits her and her girlfriend too. Dad says he’ll build us a house and buy us a condo in Athens; we each live wherever we please. It’s for show only. The construction business—you both know how it is.”
“You’ll have to compromise your identity, your actual truth!”
“Seriously, Toni—I have to call bullshit. You’re sitting across from me accusing me of what, exactly? Working to create change from within? Finding a way to make King Family Construction a better, greener company—because you know I can—without upending everyone and everything like you and Paul always do?”
“Harrison, I don’t even know who you are right now.” Tears of anger and frustration sting the corners of my eyes.
“Is everything black and white to you? I’m not even sure why you came back here today—was it really to help find Paul or was it a chance for you to descend on us with your Harvard judgments and your big-city bias? You always accuse Dad of acting out of prejudice. Who’s the prejudiced one now?”
I turn back to Izzy, looking for her support, but she’s hiding behind her phone. I yank it out of her hand once more.
“Izzy, you think this is as crazy as I do.”
“Well . . . I mean, I’m shocked about Harrison’s marriage too, but actually, some of the other stuff . . . about you, how you act toward us . . . he’s not wrong.”
I gather up my things and push myself out of the booth. Tears blur my vision as I throw a few crumpled dollar bills on the table. I’m not letting King Family Construction buy me so much as a single stuffed grape leaf. I’m heading toward the door when Mitzi cuts me off by the register.
“He was here.” Her voice is low, and she doesn’t look me in the eye.
“What?”
“The man you were looking for from the Cities. He was here.”
“At the Parth?”
“No, but around.”
“Is there anything else you remember? Who told you he was in town?”
“Nobody told me. There was a table of guys here for lunch yesterday. From your uncle’s company. I overheard them talking about a bigwig in town and it sounded like your man.”
“Do you remember who in particular?”
“Oh, a couple of his suits. They were from the accounting team, I think? Oh, wait a minute, I almost forgot: later on, one of your uncle’s foremen joined them. That big guy, been working his crew forever . . .”
“John Joseph?”
“Yep. That’s the one. And when he finished his Jell-O, he stopped over at the booth where James and Denise Hollings and their two kids were eating. I think he dropped a folder off. Is that helpful?”
Oh, Mitzi . . . how can I answer that question? Was the man I lost my virginity to who is now my uncle’s attorney involved in some kind of mysterious dealings with the corporate magnate I now represent as a lawyer? And did he look like he was starved for good sex? With me?
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s helpful.”
The spin cycle in my head is on super-fast. I double back to my cousins, still in the booth, and try to catch Harrison’s eye to offer a peace glance, but he’s not having it right now. He isn’t the one I need at the moment though. I put my hand on Izzy’s shoulder and lean close so only she can hear me.
“Hey, would it be okay if I borrow some clothes?”
Izzy grasps my hand in her hand and lets out a deep sigh of pleasure. “Oh, Toni. I thought you’d never ask.”