Chapter Nine
I had all day to think about the date that wasn’t a date. As the afternoon wore on I began to realize one thing: I had no idea what to expect.
Where would we go? Why hadn’t I thought to ask? Where would macho, Italian, “I’m not gay” Vin take a boy like me? One thing I was absolutely certain of: he would go to great lengths to keep things casual. He’d want to make sure it felt like something other than a date. I figured I was looking at some kind of male bonding, boys’ night out. It was possible we’d end up bowling and drinking Bud out of a can.
In the end, I narrowed it down to the three most likely scenarios: a movie—probably one with explosions and plenty of bosom. A restaurant—probably a sports bar. Or, best-case scenario, back to the jazz club, where we could dance—and I’d be lying if I said that option didn’t make my heart skip a beat and my blood head for places south of my brain. In truth, I didn’t care where we went, so long as I had a chance to flirt with him a bit.
I had to go into campus to do a little research at the library that afternoon, and I was childishly impatient on the way home. The EL seemed to be moving half its normal speed. I fidgeted in my seat and checked my watch repeatedly, just to assure myself that I did indeed still have plenty of time. I practically skipped up the front steps to my door.
I walked into my own private version of hell.
If there’s one certainty about living with an alcoholic, it’s that nothing is ever certain. Nothing, that is, except the next relapse.
My mom had been sober for three months this time. Three months where we all smiled and laughed and acted like a happy family. Three months where we all pretended like we believed it might last this time. I knew as soon as I walked in the front door that her clean streak was over.
There are a lot of stereotypes about alcoholism, most of which look like some kind of movie of the week: screaming, yelling, blackouts. In my early teens, I’d seen the movie The Burning Bed. I’d been haunted by the character of Paul and the cruel, sadistic, almost sexual heat in his eyes as he stared at his wife and calmly told his kids to go to bed so that he could do unspeakable things to her. I’d thought over and over about how much he deserved what he got. Yet at no point did I connect his illness with my mother’s disease.
Disease.
I fucking hated that word.
The beast that ruled our house wasn’t full of rage or violence. There were no screaming fits or visits from the police. My mother’s alcoholism was the clichéd elephant in the living room. The weight around our necks that had settled in after my father had died, the silent beast we tiptoed around and pretended not to see.
The house was eerily still, yet not silent. My mother sat alone on the couch, watching Home Shopping Network with blurry and unfocused eyes. The cheery chatter of the saleslady on the television seemed false and obnoxious.
I found my grandmother in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher. Her shoulders were permanently stooped, her fingers crooked from the arthritis. She had weak knees that were aggravated by the extra weight around her hips. She had to move with exaggerated slowness, putting away one dish at a time, shuffling from one side of the kitchen to the other in her muumuu and slippers.
“Gram, you don’t have to do that,” I told her. “You know I’ll take care of it.”
She waved her hand at me dismissively. “It does me good to move around.”
This is one of the games we play, as we dance around this “disease”. The truth was, my grandma couldn’t stand to sit in the living room with my mother, watching her sway, listening to her slurred words. My mother would stare resolutely ahead, refusing to acknowledge that she’d done anything wrong. It was easier for my grandmother to occupy herself with chores than to face what her daughter-in-law had become.
“I forgot to thaw the hamburger for dinner,” she told me. “How about some nice fish sticks?”
“It’s okay, Gram. I won’t be here. I have a…” Not a date. “I have plans.”
“Oh?” She turned to me with a twinkle in her eye. “What lucky boy has finally talked you into going out?”
While my mother did her best to pretend my homosexuality didn’t exist, my grandmother seemed to find a reckless kind of joy in it. She teased me all the time about finding a nice boy. I felt myself blush under her curious scrutiny. “It’s Vin,” I said. “Vin Fierro.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Little Vinnie?” She shook her head. “I never would have guessed.”
“I don’t think he’s really out, Gram, so don’t do anything to embarrass him, okay?”
“Okay. Okay.” She turned back to the dishwasher with a sigh. “I guess you saw.”
Another step in the dance, acknowledging without saying the words. “I did.”
“Are you meeting Vincent out somewhere?” Another step, moving on to the next subject before we could say anything that might actually matter.
“He’s picking me up at six.”
She glanced at the clock and tsked her tongue. “You better start getting ready. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Translation: You don’t want to have to let him in the house.
“You’re right.”
A short, cool shower, and I didn’t even let myself jerk off. I wanted to savor the lingering sense of arousal that Vin had kindled in me. I dressed quickly. I assumed our “not date” would be casual, so I didn’t dress up. I chose clothes I might have worn to the club if I’d actually been cruising—tight jeans with some strategically placed holes and a silky soft V-neck shirt that hugged my skin. Not like I had huge muscles to show off, but a slim waist and a perfectly flat stomach could be just as appealing to the right man. I hoped Vin was one of them. My one true vanity was my hair, which had to be exactly the right kind of messy. I fussed with that until the doorbell rang at four minutes to six. He was nothing if not punctual.
I rushed into the living room, ready to head off my mother in case she’d thought to answer the door, but she was still sitting on the couch, swaying in her seat, staring blankly ahead. She clutched something in her hand, something small that I couldn’t quite make out, something smaller than a fifth. I assumed it was a travel-sized bottle she’d picked up from the corner store.
I turned away, trying to put her out of my mind.
“Bye, Gram!” I called out. “Don’t wait up.” With any luck, I’d be home late.
I opened the door and found Vin looking like some kind of uber-Italian Rico Suave. Jesus Christ, he looked like fucking sex on a stick. Not only that, but he looked nice. Not casual nice. Date nice. I half-expected him to offer me a corsage. Mister “this isn’t a date” Vin Fierro was pressed and ironed, his hair combed, a gold chain glinting at his open collar. For all of his words of denial, this apparently was a date.
A date for which I was embarrassingly underdressed.
He raised his eyebrow at me in that smartass way of his. “You ready?”
Fuck. Now what? On a good day, I would have invited him in while I ran to my room and changed, but that would mean having him see my mother. He’d feel compelled to make small talk with her. She would blink blurrily at him. When she spoke, her words would come out jumbled and incomprehensible. She would be, in a word, unbearable.
“Umm…” I looked down at my clothes, trying to decide how rude it would be to ask him to wait on the porch while I changed. But then I looked up at him again.
He was staring at me. Not at my face, but in the general vicinity of my waist. A slow blush was creeping up his cheeks.
Maybe I wouldn’t change my clothes after all.
“Give me one second,” I told him.
I ignored the confusion on his face as I closed the door, leaving him standing on the porch. I ran to my room and pulled open my closet. A silk scarf my Gram had bought me went around my neck. My one sport coat went over it all. Leather shoes replaced my Converse.
A glance in the mirror and I decided it would have to do. Yes, Vin looked like the ultimate personification of Italian machismo, and I looked like a poster boy for the ACLU. What did it matter?
After all, this wasn’t a date.