Chapter 17
A Spark, Then Smoke
Two days into the reconstruction of the deck, what was once a high-spirited endeavor of music and inside jokes has devolved into silent, tense labor. The outer frame is already complete, along with three sets of stairs—a left one going toward the winery path, a right one going toward the swimming pool, and a grander, central one going toward the rose and sculpture gardens. All that’s left now is to fill in the top of the deck and “pretty” it, but that’s tougher than we thought. This deck wraps the entire East and West Wings, which means it’s full of irregular angles, which means irregular beams. The Fourth of July is a few days away, and then my siblings go back home.
Good for my sanity, but bad for the job.
With Uncle Paul and his carpenter friend from Valle acting as foremen, Ben, Traci, Kimmy, A. C., and I drill, nail, measure, and cut what seems to be a never-ending supply of gray-stained lumber. The high sun, as fierce as knives on my skin, makes everything worse. The heat has literally been turned up on all preexisting conflicts, and among this tiny group, there are shockingly many.
Ben is still mad at A. C.
A. C. is mad at Ben and me for holding him to the dumbass jokes of his past.
Kimmy is mad at me for making a snide remark about her husband, who should be out here doing this shit instead of me.
I’m mad at Kimmy for using the Wishing Rose to bind herself to such a libertarian hick, who I know is already being clumsy with the feelings of his oldest son, who I am sure is queer, and who I know will be intentionally steered away from seeking advice from his gay uncle, because that’s exactly what shithead straight parents of gay children do.
And Traci is mad at all of us for making this such a chore when she could be downstairs trying to score a jackpot on the slot machine.
This is the exact same group that—less than a decade ago—enjoyed one easygoing summer after another together. Now we’re all snippy grown-ups, half of us watching the clock until Aunt Ro returns with wine.
“Hold the work, please,” Uncle Paul says, a damp washcloth resting on his head. We all instantly, happily oblige. My triceps scream as Ben and I set down our impossibly heavy two-yard-long beam. The weight finally off my hands, I pull off my bandanna and wring out an inch of sweat into the grass. Ben fans himself with his hat as Paul visibly struggles to tell us something. “We don’t have to do anything over…but most of the bolts we’re working with are wrong.”
Traci and I moan the loudest, while Ben, A. C., and Kimmy retreat into grim silence. My fingertips are beet red from hand-threading these bolts, and they’ve been wrong the whole time? Making a deck is like an IKEA project came to life just to strangle you.
“Better to catch it now,” Paul says, “but I am gonna need one of you to go to town and pick up the correct bolt order.”
“I’ll go,” Ben says, gingerly hopping over the deck frame. My siblings revolt en masse, but Ben just shrugs. “You know where Slava’s Hardware is? You know how to get him to knock off twenty percent? Any of you have an ass this cute?” He spanks himself, and it indeed boings like a cheap mattress. “No to all three.”
I slump dramatically over the deck frame and say, “I like to think that my ass is also—”
“Close, but mine’s stronger.” Winking, Ben disappears down the rear entrance for guest vehicles, finally getting what he’s wanted for hours—to be rid of my family.
Now on a forced lunch break, Traci sprints inside to try the slot machine again, and Kimmy follows her to give Ro a break from the kids. Paul digs two bottled Pepsis from a cooler and hands them to me and A. C. Icy slush from the cooler drips down my arm so pleasantly, I don’t even want to drink it yet. A. C., scowling behind his thick beard and bucket hat, downs his in one.
“Gents,” Paul says, “you two gonna be nice? It’s not good for brothers to hold grudges. Once they start, it’s hard to stop.”
“I’m fine,” A. C. says at the end of a soda belch. “Your gardener’s got the attitude problem.”
“Hey,” I snap. “Ben’s been looking after this place longer than any of us have, and if it weren’t for him, we’d be selling off our entire family history right now.”
“Fellas…” Paul says with a hint of warning.
I don’t care. I’m supposed to be looking at European design schools right now, but instead, I’m drawing doodles of installations for the Rose Festival because A. C. and the rest of this family sat by and watched this place turn to piss. What would’ve happened if I were already overseas? If my last relationship had worked and I’d stayed in Chicago? If anything had gone right for me?
I’d be listening to Mom cry on the phone because Ro just hocked another heirloom.
Ben and I might have a shaky cease-fire with each other, but I’m not going to let him get dragged when he’s the only one of us kids who gave a shit about Vero Roseto when it mattered.
A. C. flexes and puffs his chest like he’s king of the wilderness. As if that’s going to intimidate me. I straighten to my full height and flex, leaner but still able to drop him like dirt if that’s what’s needed.
“I thought you hated that guy,” A. C. says.
“You don’t know anything about that,” I say.
“I remember you at Grandma’s wake, hollering your guts out at him. And when he left, I remember you telling us to never mention him to you again.”
Breaths come shorter and sharper through my nose. My heart rate triples. But still, I don’t blink. “You are stepping on something you don’t know anything about.”
“You were middle school dweebs. How complicated could it be?”
“Do not minimize me.”
A. C. steps closer, jabbing a large finger at my sternum. My breath halts altogether, but still, I don’t flinch. “Our grandma was dead. Everyone was grieving. And we had to stop to focus on your middle school bullshit.”
My throat closes completely. The sun’s knives push deeper into my skull as a headache consumes me. Sweat dances with my growing storm of tears. Next to us, Paul doesn’t speak or get in the middle. Whatever is happening, it has to happen, and he knows it.
“You called me a Band-Aid baby,” I say through gritted teeth.
“What?” my brother asks.
“Band-Aid baby. When I was dealing with losing my grandma, and my best friend, and my boyfriend, you thought it would be a great time to remind me that the only reason I exist was because Mom and Dad were trying to fix a broken marriage with a baby. You minimized me, you minimized my existence, and when they got divorced anyway, you blamed me for not being enough to keep them together.”
A. C.’s nostrils flare open and closed, rapidly, like an animal. “I was upset.”
“Or maybe you’re just an asshole who runs his mouth when he should shut up.” My jaw clicks with tension. “Maybe that’s why Ben didn’t buy your apology. Because he knew what I was too much of a pushover to admit—that you aren’t sorry for your jokes at all. That you have no concept of our pain or your role in it.”
“I am sorry,” A. C. spits, more frustrated than anything else. “But you gotta work with me—”
Now my finger pokes his sternum. “I don’t gotta do a goddamn thing.”
I exhale loudly. Paul and A. C. say nothing. I quickly glance behind my shoulder, where the rest of my family watches from the parlor’s screen door. “Uncle Grant’s yelling,” one of my younger nephews say as Ro hauls him away to the kitchen. Traci, Kimmy, and little Angelo remain, staring with fear stitched onto their faces.
I almost give in. I almost let A. C. off the hook and tell him it’s okay, just to lower the tension. But Angelo’s face stops me.
If I’m right about him, he needs to see this. He needs to see me hold the high ground.
Turning back to A. C., I ask, calmer, “Do you even know who Nick Hutchinson is?” My brother’s blank reaction tells me what I already know. “No? Hutch. He was my boyfriend that whole last summer. Lived in Valle. Probably still does. He was a friend of Ben’s. He was my first kiss. First everything. Did any of you even have a clue?”
A. C. shakes his head. “You weren’t out yet. Everything was a secret.”
“But there were clues.” I slap my hand into my palm for emphasis. “There are always clues. I had a girly voice and so did Ben. Don’t tell me none of you talked about it. Spotting baby gays is a national American pastime. So, what you do when you sense that is two things: create a welcoming environment and be aware of who we’re sneaking out to go see. Homophobic bro humor and total indifference to our lives is not it. So, I’m sorry it happened at the wake, but I was a kid with a really hard secret who was going through an obvious breakup, which is middle school nothingness to you, but to me, it brought me a depression I still can’t get rid of.”
I thrust my arm in the direction of the rose garden. “Everyone in this family found their true love magic because of that rose. But when I had problems with Ben, who could I tell? None of you people. I had to tell the rose! And who did Ben have? His parents split. We were all gone. He didn’t even have me! He had it so much worse than me, and I had it bad.” I throw my arms up, exhausted. My breaths shudder with helpless rage. Finally, I whimper, “Why couldn’t any of you see us?”
Leaning against the deck frame, I clutch my chest to steady my breathing.
Oh God. I talked myself in circles.
I overdid it. The truth all came out, and I overdid it.
If nothing else, I just wanted to show Angelo a gay person could be strong and speak their truth. But all he probably saw was some scary, unhinged, lonely guy.
Just don’t cry, Grant. Don’t faint and don’t cry.
I swig my bottle of Pepsi, which has turned lukewarm.
“Have you gotten that out of your system?” A. C. asks, his shoulders still pumping with heavy breaths. Weakly, I nod. Then he pulls me into a powerful hug. “I’m sorry, little buddy.”
It’s not his usual non-apology. It’s from the gut.
Behind us, the screen door opens. Traci’s tennis shoes land hard on the dirt as she leaps from the patio door through the open deck. Kimmy follows her, and she helps down Angelo. All of them, including Uncle Paul, swarm me. Tiny Angelo weaves around his mom’s legs to find me. With a mop full of curls identical to mine, he smiles—a front tooth missing—and I melt.
If I’m right about him, he just got a great all-clear signal from his family.
Half an hour later, when Ben returns from town with the new bolts, he finds a refreshed and revitalized Rossi family. On sight, A. C. raises him a cold bottle, crowing, “Hey, there he is!” My brother throws a chummy arm around a highly uncomfortable (and confused) Ben. “Buddy, when you were growing up, I was a prick. There is no excuse, and I’m sorry. And to be totally honest, since my brother came out, I haven’t gone a single day without remembering what I said. And every time I remember those little jokes, it hits me like an icicle right here.” Still in A. C.’s iron grip, Ben watches my brother jab at his sternum. “Right here, Ben. And I feel it for you, too.”
“Thank you…Uh, keep it up.” Beyond baffled, Ben squirms out of A. C.’s arm, lobs the new bag of bolts to Uncle Paul, and approaches me chilling alone at the edge of the deck frame.
“What’s going on with A. C.?” he asks, scooching next to me on the beam.
Smiling, I guzzle more freezing pop. “You missed a blow-out fight. Him and me.”
Ben’s eyes widen with fiendish glee. “I MISSED IT?” he whispers. “Who won? And what about?”
“That’ll teach you to run off. I won. And it was about you. Well, me. And, I guess, us. He started in on you, and…I lost it. It came rushing back to me, how scared you were when I told you to leave my grandma’s wake. I know I…hurt you, and left you alone with your dad, who sucks.”
“Mm-hmm, my dad, who sucks.”
“And then you had to move, go through all that alone. Anyway, I let him have it. Nobody shit-talks you but me.”
For a long time, Ben doesn’t react, and I don’t say anything either. Sometimes, apologies are best when you just put it out there and let it cool like a pie right out of the oven. Finally, he bites his lip and asks, “You fought for me?”
On a cleansing inhale, I reaffix the bandanna around my sopping curls and say the words I never thought I’d say to Ben in a million years: “I want to start over. Forget the rules about bringing up our past. I can’t hold on to it anymore.” My jaw tenses on a sharp swell of guilt and hope. “If I only got you around for a few more weeks, I want you and me to start over for real.”
A grin finds Ben. He stares at me as if he’s waiting to make sure I don’t take it back or say “JK!” I watch him, my own hope rebuilding. Finally, he slips his hand inside mine and whispers, “Gay.”
I smile. This isn’t a fleeting touch, this is his hand gripping mine and not letting go.
Jackpot.
The next day, we complete the deck. The day after that, the city inspector clears the deck for occupancy. The day after that is the Fourth of July, and the new deck’s furniture fills with my family and new B&B guests while the kids swim. “Oh, what you’ve done with the deck is gorgeous!” says an older Black woman, sipping wine with Aunt Ro. “I used to come here every summer with my kids until they were grown. It’s been a few years, I think, but I remember this deck looking its age. It looks fabulous!”
Ro clinks her glass to the woman’s. “I’m looking my age, too. How do I get looking fabulous again?”
Spitting laughter, the woman clinks her glass again. “Please!”
Before the sun begins to set, Ben and I go to the basement to find Uncle Dom’s pantry of illegal fireworks and low-key military explosives. After thorough internet research, we determine the best way to dispose of such things is an overnight bath. In the morning, we’ll wrap them in towels and dump them at the local solid waste disposal.
It feels good to get rid of things that are no longer serving us.
We save some smoke balls, black snakes, and TNT snappers. My nephews shriek with delight at the snappers—even Angelo, who earned a bravery badge when his uncle Grant helped him hold fire in the palm of his hand with that snapper. Down goes the small white bulb, striking the new deck with a snap! Angelo screams, followed by gales of laughter as he begs me to let him do it again. While my littler nephews ignite coils of black snakes, Angelo chases them through the clouds of orange fog belching out of the smoke balls.
As soon as the twilit sky turns violet, blasts of colorful fireworks explode, far in the distance over Valle Forest. Later that night, Aunt Ro and Uncle Paul haul out stacks of old, physical photo albums, each flip of the page bringing gentle memory-filled sighs or gales of roaring laughter. The biggest laugh comes from looking at the pictures of Grandma and Grandpa’s anniversary party. I was ten—Ben was there. And there was Grandpa Angelo in that hideous brown velvet suit with the wide lapels and flurry of ruffles. He looked like a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey with those frilly little booties.
“Hey, I liked that suit!” Ben argues, laughing with A. C.—something I thought I’d never see. “Angelo said he was gonna leave it to me. I wanna file a complaint. Ro!”
“Don’t look at me! Nobody knows where it went,” she says, deep into a bottle of sambuca with Traci. “If it was up to me, I woulda burned it.”
“I’m gonna sue.”
“Go ahead! All I got is Vero Roseto, and it’s a dump!”
As everyone boos Ro, A. C. smacks Ben’s shoulder to get his attention. His cheeks are flushed red from Grato. “That garden looks brand-new. Just the way it used to after planting. You made it look exactly the same.”
Ben smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, I remembered what it looked like.”
“From memory?”
“Yeah, Angelo actually gave me some tips that summer. He was cool.”
As Ben gazes at the ground, looking lost in a flood of memories, I’m struck silent remembering my dream. Grandpa Angelo’s wedding suit, his anniversary suit, the suit he wore to my grandma’s wake. The only reason he wasn’t buried in it is because no one could find it after he died. Apparently he wanted Ben to have it, but where did it go?
“Enjoy yourself,” Grandpa told me in the dream. “This is the last time we’ll be together like this.”
Terror striking my heart, I glance around at my nephews, my brother, my sisters, my aunt and uncle…and Ben, and I realize if I go far for school, this could be the last time for us all over again. Next to me on the deck, I slip my arm around Ben’s waist and pull him into a side hug—and to my ecstasy, he lets me.