The adults booze and the kids bolt: Matty and Rebecca Freedman, cousin Greg, and my siblings follow my charge to our parents’ room upstairs. Uli breezes in, the one uninvited guest of the evening, and finds us all upstairs. “We finished our dinner a long time ago,” he says by way of explanation. “Super boring.” He’s been here a few times since I started at Alternative, and it’s a love fest between him and Papa so he knows he won’t get turned away.
“Anyone know how to light their fingertips on fire?” I ask, grabbing a bottle of perfume from the gilded mirror lying flat atop my mother’s dresser.
“I know how to make myself burp,” Matty says, serving up a gamey tuna fish belch.
“Pissah,” Uli says, balancing on his long arms in the doorway. And then he erupts with a belly volcano twenty times more sonorous than Matty’s.
“Uli!” I call. “Come here, light my fingers.” I pour a bit of the perfume out on the mirror and dab each of the three middle fingers of my right hand in the slippery liquid. I hand him a book of matches and he strikes one, holding it before his face for a moment. Then adopting a Lugosi drawl says, “Vatch as I vill burn my friend to ashes! Bwah hah hah!” And with that he touches the match tip to my fingers, setting them ablaze in a translucent blue and yellow.
Rebecca screams and bolts out of the room. Greg and Matty stay, fixated.
“That’s boss,” Greg says, big buck teeth pulling at his lower lip, barely able to control his excitement. I think he is going to drool.
“He always does that,” Amanda puts in, annoyed by the attention we’re getting.
“Hey, what are you little people up to?” Carly takes Uli’s place in the doorway, eyes watery and red, smile weak.
“Louis just lit his fingers on fire with my mother’s perfume,” Amanda says blandly.
“Oh, that’s creative,” Carly says. “Can I try?” As she approaches me the three other boys drop back a step or two, eyes on her purple silk evening dress, tie-dye splashed at the chest so the explosion of color turns sun yellow over her breasts. Carly takes the small square glass bottle and dabs the tips of every finger and the matching pads on her palm. She looks at me and nods. My hand trembles a bit as I hold a lit match before her doused fingers. “I’m not sure what happens if you have long fingernails,” I say, pulling back at the last moment.
“It’s OK,” she answers softly, sniffling. “I’m an adult.” As if I need to be reminded.
Moving closer to her, I feel Carly’s breath stroke my hair, sparks erupt across my back.
My heart leaps with the liquid blue flame as Carly’s fingers flutter and she laughs happily, eyes brightening at the vision. “I don’t feel a thing,” she says. “It’s cool.”
“Don’t let it go too long,” I warn.
“It feels good. You forget everything for a second.” She licks her lips softly, letting the fire continue to lap at the space between us. I dash to the bathroom to get a towel.
“It only lasts for a little bit that, then it starts burning your skin. I don’t want you to get hurt,” I say, covering her hand with the towel.
“Too late for that, Sir Lancelot,” she touches my head again, wraps an arm around me.
* * *
Papa added three leaves to the table but it still can’t hold the entire group. He asks Uncle Rick to take Raphael to the basement and lug up the wooden worktable on which Mama has been cutting glass and framing pictures for neighbors and friends.
Mama’s stress level has risen with the headcount, now grown to twenty with the unexpected additions of Raphael and Uli. We all take our seats and Uli sidles up happily next to Gramps, who pats him on the shoulder, and turns to Carly. “So how are you keeping yourself busy?” Gramps asks.
“I’m organizing a group here at the house—a safe space for women to gather and discuss their sexual lives,” she says, her voice still soft, but resurgent.
“Sexual lives?” he draws back, faux scandalized.
“We all have them … Hopefully.” Carly smiles at him. “Some are wonderful, some could use some adjustment, and some really need intervention and support. But they all need to be talked about.”
“With strangers?”
“With other human beings. It’s just human. I’m sure Wini would understand. Maybe she’d like to sign up.”
Gramps chuckles uncomfortably and turns to Grandma Wini as if to say You wouldn’t, would you? but Uncle Ricky has pranced into a political minefield by starting a debate with my father about welfare recipients—whether they truly want to work or are just living off the taxpayers.
“Of course they are!” Grandma Charlotte leaps in. “Society’s leeches.”
“Charlotte, honestly, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Papa says from the other end of the table. Grandma Charlotte glowers at Papa but says nothing. Although the regulars know this is standard thrust and parry for my father and my mother’s mother, the newcomers are startled. As high as he has placed his own mother on a pedestal, Papa would take shit from Atjeh before he takes it from Grandma Charlotte. “Seriously,” Papa goes on, the room simmering in wait. “You don’t know bupkes. Spend one day in our office. One. Now I’d like to make a toast.”
“I see there’s a great deal of respect for one’s elders in this household,” Glovey says to Johnny loud enough so everyone can hear.
“Ah, forgive me,” Papa bows his head. “You’re right, Glovey. Charlotte, I apologize, that really wasn’t appropriate at all. The fact is, you genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about and it drives me bananas, but that gives me no right to speak to you with anything but respect. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
Grandma Charlotte doesn’t speak, and she is motionless save for the gentle sway of her towering gray-blue hair. She stares blankly at Mama while the rest of us stare at her. “Did he apologize?” she asks at last. “I didn’t hear it.”
“Anyway”—Papa raises a glass and clinks it with the side of a butter knife—“this is a very special occasion. We have all our loved ones together around the table again. Plus, we are fortunate enough to be able to welcome Glovey and her grandson, Johnny, to our home. Glovey,” he raises his glass still higher in the old woman’s direction, “you are the belle of our ball and we are honored by your presence.” Glovey gestures gently in response, indicating that this is sufficient praise.
“What about Uli?” Amanda asks. “It’s special that he’s here.”
“Well, yes it is,” says Papa. “Uli, we are so glad you could make it.” He pauses. “By the way, where’s your real family?”
“Watching the Cowboys game.”
“I got Cowboys by six,” Uncle Ricky says.
“Well, we’re glad you chose us. And the same goes for Raphael who, despite eating all my hummus, is my hero for the day. I feel ten years younger.”
“Was that the point?” Ricky laughs heartily.
“I think Peter looks marvelous,” Grandma Wini chimes, alive with her unique brand of maternal euphoria and her three-ounce martini.
“Anyway, if I can try once more?” Papa raises his glass. “It’s a delight to have you all here. Not to mention our special houseguests, Howie and Carly.”
“Amen!” Mama says.
“We love you,” Carly says, her voice pure and full of love. None of the joking or irritation has affected her. And whatever had caused her heart to ache earlier, it seems for the moment to have melted away.
“I love you,” I reply into the silence.
“Whoa, hombre!” Howie throws up his hands and I blush.
“I mean all of you. Duh? I love all of you,” I sit up as straight as I can in the hardback chair.
“I love you all, too,” Mama says, “And I’m just happy I have a son who feels comfortable enough to say it so simply.”
“Hey,” Amanda protests. “I love everybody, too, you know.”
“We know,” Mama whispers. “Shhhh…”
“Right.” Papa regains the attention of the group. “It’s a love fest. Anyway, as I was trying to say … What separates today from all other days is that we stop, take a moment to reflect on what we’re grateful for, and do it in the company of those we care for. I, for one, am grateful for my family. For all of you. You add richness and texture to life. You keep the days from dragging on and the nights from ending too soon. We are better for knowing you all. L’chaim!”
“What did he say?” Glovey asks Johnny as the rest of the room repeats the salute.
“It’s a Jewish thing,” Rick yells to her. “I’m old hat at this now. The token goy. Ask me anything.”
“I’d like to suggest that maybe we go around the room and each add one thing we’re grateful for. Just a word or two. Phyl, do you want to start?” The guests, caught off guard, look uneasily at one another.
Uli’s eyes widen admiringly every time my father opens his mouth. I realize I have stopped trying so hard to wrest Papa’s attention from his many preoccupations—his friends, work, music, wardrobe, and The New York Times. I am more interested in trying to unlock the mysteries of the man from Berkeley. Yet now I feel a sudden pang of guilt. My communication with Papa these days is more the wordless kind, the reality between us more often done in significant glances than in conversation: angry eyes if I cross his line, approving wink and nod if I meet his standards.
Mama grins nervously, never one to make toasts or speeches. “I’m grateful that Howie and Carly are staying with us,” she says softly, then passes the baton to Enid, sitting on her right.
“I’m grateful for the good health of my family,” Enid offers as Mama quietly excuses herself and disappears into the kitchen.
“And good medicine,” Steve adds, leaning his head against Enid’s.
The kids go round: “Popsicles.” “Burping on command!”
“No fire engines today.” Cousin Greg, always terrified of sirens, looks genuinely grateful.
“No fire engines today!” Aunt Leslie seconds.
“My old shit spreader didn’t need a new differential after all,” Uncle Ricky informs us.
“I’m grateful for this invitation,” Glovey Butler says, “though I do find you all a bit strange.” The table laughs nervously at her paper-dry humor.
“Unity and love,” Carly is looking right at Howie.
“Love and latitude,” Howie replies.
“Papa’s old hair,” my sister says with more force than she may have intended.
“Amanda,” Mama’s scold floats along the fragrant warmth coming from the kitchen.
“It’s fine. Fine. Keep going,” Papa says. “David?”
“Bunny Yabba?” he says. Glovey Butler crinkles his brows.
“Moving on,” Papa prods.
“My beautiful, glorious, to-die-for grandchildren,” Grandma Wini scrunches her eyes shut, clearly experiencing some sort of secret rapture the rest of us can only imagine. “And Sammy. And my children. And their spouses. And all of you. Oh, it’s too hard to narrow down.”
“The buffet at Kowloon,” Gramps says, betraying his deepest passions.
“Sammy, honestly,” Grandma Wini shakes her head.
“Dad?” Papa asks. “Seriously?”
“What? It’s the best all-you-can-eat on the North Shore. And the fried bananas? Come on!”
“Christopher Reeve,” Frank clasps his hands to his chest.
“Who?” Three or four people ask simultaneously.
“Superman?” I ask.
Frank nods vigorously. “Good-bye Travolta, hello Sugar Tights.”
The room erupts.
The table turns light and easy until Papa makes me read the poem I wrote last year. He had a local artist illustrate and frame it. I was smitten by that thoughtful attention but blush at this. “Off you go,” he prods. “Wait until you hear this. Louis is turning into a real writer.”
I return with the framed poem. Papa smiles, gives an encouraging nod. You’re making me proud. Now show everyone else how proud I can be.
“When I’m Lonely,” I begin softly.
“Louder!” Uncle Rick says.
“When I’m lonely I sit on my bunk bed and count my one hundred and forty baseball cards. I lay on the floor when I’m supposed to clean my room. I think of why I have no friends; I think of the same one hundred reasons, then I’m back to where I started from. I thumb through my dictionary or an astronomy book—the stars seem lonely too. I look for a toy I know I lost, or sit on my old tricycle. Sometimes I walk out of my room and let my mom scream at me…” I pause here.
“Go on,” Papa says, eyes closed, listening with intent.
“I walk out of my room and let my mom scream at me about why I should be cleaning my room. Sometimes I’m lonely when I’m in school and want someone to help me with a story. I’m lonely when I’m the slowest boy in the class.” I lay the poem on the table to indicate this is the end. It’s over.
“My Louis!” Grandma Wini nearly shrieks. “That is simply mahvelous. Come here! Come here this instant!” she calls, not waiting, lifting from her chair and smothering me against her soft chest in front of the group. “Oy gottenyu. I’m going to die right here.”
The others offer gentle applause. Amanda rolls her eyes. David says, “I’m lonely, too!” searching the room for a response.
Howie leans forward to me and points at my heart: “You have two superpowers in your corner, niño: that creative spark … and that grandmother. That’s some serious unconditional love stuff right there. I’ve got a jealousy hard-on for that.”
“I think that … that was so terribly sad,” says Carly as the table quiets down. “It makes me want to cry.”
Papa frowns. “Well, that’s what makes it a good poem. It evokes some emotion.”
Carly stares at me. “But I just think of you, up there, all alone, trying to keep yourself busy, but doing the same things over and over. Things that won’t make the feeling go away.” I glance at Grandma Wini who ponders this interpretation with a confused expression. “I think that may be the saddest poem I ever heard,” Carly says, her eyes fixed on mine.
She’s right. They’re celebrating it, but no one really listened. Well, almost no one.
“It’s the artistry that moves me,” says Papa. “We all feel lonely now and then. But Louis says it so well.”
“Where was I?” Uli asks. “I would’ve come over!”
Everybody laughs except me and Carly, our eyes still locked. I would feel bad over and over again just to have her attention like this. To be known as I am, rather than as I am wished to be.
Guests are beginning to stir. Mama, Enid, and Leslie go to the kitchen and return with steamy platters, gravy boats, bubbled-over dutch ovens and pink and green terrines—more than anyone could imagine would fit in our tiny kitchen or our stomachs.
The chink of silver on china fills the room, and the rustle of multiple conversations rises to fill the awkward spaces. Mama and Papa’s dinner is alternately familiar and bizarre. Most of the adults compliment them, oohing and aahing over the variations, but the kids wait for the turkey and cranberry sauce, even if the latter is, they will discover, laced with unwelcome additions: candied ginger and almond slivers.
“This meal is far fucking out,” Howie says through a huge mouthful.
“Mrs. Cove, your salad is divine,” Glovey Butler croaks from her end of the table. “You must share the recipe with Johnny so he can make it for us sometime.”
A warm blush fills Grandma Wini’s face and she begins to list the ingredients—mandarin oranges, water chestnuts—but one of the other guests cuts her off. “So, our friends from California here must have some strong feelings about the defeat of Proposition 6, I assume?”
“What’s Proposition 6?” Amanda asks, always magnetically drawn to the third rail.
Mama and Papa lock eyes. They both look at Glovey Butler, then back at one another. I sense that this is it: the conversation they never wanted to have with her.
“It was a terrible thing, love,” Carly says to Amanda. “California voters were asked to ban gay and lesbian people from teaching in the public schools. They called it the Briggs Initiative and, thankfully, it failed.”
“You know you’re living in the Twilight Zone when Ronald Reagan comes to the defense of the gay movement,” Steve adds.
“Mmmmm, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Howie answers. “He didn’t defend gays. I’m sure he would have been very happy not to have them teaching in public schools. He just made sure that fucking Briggs didn’t end up governor. Self-interest, all the way.”
“California probably just avoided its own version of Kristallnacht,” Frank says, uncharacteristically serious.
“A little extreme, don’t you think? Comparing the plights of Jews and gays…” Grandma Charlotte says.
“Oy. And away we go…” Uncle Mo pulls out a green cigar to light between courses.
Mama shifts nervously in her seat. Papa keeps opening his mouth as if to speak but can’t seem to get anything out. He’s torn, wanting to join the conversation but also wanting to end it. His face turns deep red as he drinks more wine.
“I don’t think so,” Glovey Butler says, dropping her silver to her china plate with a definitive clang. “Just look at what happened in Dade County with Anita Bryant.”
“Miss Oklahoma?” Gramps asks.
“Miss orange juice huckster turned zealot! She’s a closet Nazi if ever I saw one.” Again Glovey renders the group speechless. Even the kids, who have no idea what’s being discussed, can feel the temperature of the room drop by ten degrees. Everyone stares at Glovey, who picks up her utensils once again and begins to carve into the turkey Mama has just placed before her. “You know,” she creaks, “some of my best friends are homos.”
“Yeah!” Howie cheers. Mama chokes on her wine. Papa grins happily, shoulders releasing as he leans back in his chair. He gives Glovey an almost imperceptible knowing wink and we realize, all at once, that the cranky old doyenne next door is just an act.
“I prefer ‘queen,’ myself,” Frank replies. He sounds indignant, but when I turn to face him I see a wet smile quivering below his bristly ’stache.
The banter continues but I’m fixated on the look of silent love my mother is giving my father. He was right. This was the solution, and his tendency toward chaos has paid off. Glovey isn’t a homophobe and Frank isn’t her enemy. She wants the neighborhood to look one way, on the outside. But behind closed doors, everything is on the table.
Uncle Rick is laughing, waving a finger at Howie. “Hey, speaking of queen—I could use a pair of pants like that.”
“Have mine,” Howie motions to his lap.
“That’s OK,” Rick says. “You know what the guys at the Sylvania plant would say to me if I walked in wearing those geisha girl pajamas?”
“Let’s find out!” Howie stands and, before anyone can say otherwise, pulls the white drawstring at his waist and lets the orange pants drop around his ankles.
“Oh, my God,” Mama whispers, horrified.
“Now it’s a party,” Frank delights.
“A singular experience, Mr. Cove,” Glovey says to Papa.
Amanda, Matty, Rebecca, and Greg squeal as Howie steps out of his pants and, conspicuously unhurried, walks around the table to present them to Uncle Rick.
“Thanks, you crazy freakin’ loon,” Uncle Rick shakes his head as Howie returns to his seat, naked from the waist down.
“You should all get used to seeing this anyway, people,” Howie says, pointing south. “Because you’re seeing the future.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Glovey Butler replies.
“Put your pants on,” Papa grumbles fiercely, eyeing Glovey and seeing how swiftly his victory has turned pyrrhic.
“Doesn’t pay,” Howie shakes his head. “But this does.” He pulls something from under his seat—a magazine with big yellow letters at the top and a picture of a brown-haired woman with a man in the lower right corner, resting his head on her shoulder, nuzzling her neck, and smiling. Howie opens the magazine, grabs the top of the page, and releases it, accordion style, to reveal a single photograph of … him.
Propped on his right elbow, half-smoked cigarette between his lips, long hair blowing back from his head, chest tanned and shiny, just speckled with hair, stomach contracted into a knobby washboard, legs spread and held apart by his left arm, bare knee pointing toward the ceiling, thick veiny pink penis, haloed by a spray of light brown pubic hair, pointing past his hip bone to the floor, and a golden ashtray—the only other prop in the scene.
I look at Carly. Her eyes have dried, whitened. She’s staring at Howie with that look of blissed-out love. I drop my head, inspect the soft little popover of my stomach. I look up again. And there he is, still naked. The room is silent.
“Meet Playgirl’s Man of the Month!” Howie does a game-show model kind of thing with his hand, keeping the centerfold in plain view. “I’m Mr. November. Glad to make your acquaintance.”