Family Jewels Read online

  The last thing under the drawer was a small box, like the one the necklace I’d bought at the thrift store had come in, only larger. I opened it and it was full of different jewelry, none of it matching the other pieces. All different—and the three rings were all different sizes. I got the shivers really bad right then, so I carefully and quickly put it back. And then I put everything else back the way it had been too, including the drawer. I finished making the bed, and got the hell out of there. This was a lot to think about, and maybe meant nothing at all. Whenever my brain returned, I’d ask it.

  Around noon there was a knock on the door. When I opened it I found a catering service, so in they came and I got out of the way, wishing I’d had lunch now that I thought something would stay down. The older woman who seemed to be in charge saw me looking wistfully at the boxes and bags they brought in, and said, with a heavy Spanish accent, “Hey Sue,” (whoever that meant), “you boys are all alike.” The three young men with her smiled. One blushed. I looked at him. As I noted his beautiful, delicate features, his dimples and his curly dark hair, so like my own, I didn’t think for a minute that the three of them were ‘all’ alike. There was something in the way he looked at me, the way we somehow recognized something in each other; I’d never experienced this before. Anyhow, she went on, “Here you are, eat this first, then you leave the rest alone, got it?” They nodded and one took a big box from her and nodding at me, drew us all into the dining room.

  The box contained a huge, obviously homemade, peach pie. “Si,” she said from the hallway, all three hundred pounds of her or whatever, roly poly and happy looking with it. “Eat first, work better, right?”

  I fell in love. First with that big old Mommy in the kitchen, next with the pie, and lastly with the boy who wasn’t like the others (he winked at me).

  Within an hour, I had that boy in my bedroom, ‘helping’ me ‘get dressed for dinner’. It seemed that in order to do that, I had to get almost completely undressed first. Who knew? Formal dinners; I could get used to this. Oh, my, I could. Did I mention the condoms I found in Dad’s top drawer? No? Well they aren’t there now, either. Not that I remembered them at the time, or needed to. I just hadn’t wanted Dad to have them, that bastard.

  I’m telling this part backwards. ‘Hey Sue’ was his name; Jesus, in English, but pronounced otherwise. I almost giggled. He said my name so softly and sweetly that I melted. I was standing close to him. I was supposed to be dusting the living room. I was supposed to be getting dressed. I wasn’t supposed to be suddenly drawn to this slight, Mexican boy who almost resembled me. I wasn’t supposed to be getting my first real kiss. I wasn’t supposed to be groped so pleasantly, if you can call my heart doubling its speed pleasant. Nothing came of all this, but I didn’t know any better yet anyhow. The kiss itself was everything; the rest was just like whipped cream would have been on the pie. That’s how innocent I still was at that time.

  Dad and Chris came back. They’d eaten and then gone to the mall. Dad had insisted Chris (as the ‘good child’) buy herself some new clothes. She came in happy and carrying bags from stores we normally laughed about. Money had been no object. Was he bribing her? If so, it must have worked.

  Shortly before three she reappeared dressed so pretty even I noticed. Two of the kitchen helpers sure did too. The third winked at me again and we both blushed. Dad straightened his tie and looked me over and rolled his eyes. He looked at Chris and couldn’t have been prouder, or something. I didn’t like it; it didn’t feel right. I wasn’t jealous; I was hurt, but that wasn’t what it was about. I don’t know. I didn’t have the words, but she seemed truly happy, not just faking it, so I had to be happy for her too. Except when I noticed she was wearing a necklace of pretty colored crystals; that made me feel very sad.

  She wouldn’t wear the pearls that were so much like Mom’s, but she wore the crystals Dad bought her with joy. I guess there was a lot about girls that I didn’t, and probably never would, know.

  Now underneath all this, cleaning, a little fun with that guy, jealousy or happiness, etc. etc., I had a riptide of grayness pulling me out to sea. It was Father’s Day; I hadn’t been included in the ‘Family Outing’ and of course I’d completely forgotten to buy a card or present anyhow, although down there in the murky pool of the dirty water was the knowledge that: A. he wouldn’t have cared, and: B. it wouldn’t have been good enough anyhow. So it all averaged out, except for the strong tug of the undercurrent. I was kind of spacy with it all, wondering where it was taking me, wondering when I’d drown.

  Chapter 2

  So why are we spending Father’s Day with the mayor and what passes for his family? Why isn’t he spending the day with his own wife and kiddies? That’s a long story. Dad and he—Mike—go back to high school days, in the next town over. That was a rural village then and isn’t much bigger now. They played football together and fucked their girlfriends in the same car on double dates. Depending on whose father’s car, in the front seat or in the back. I’d heard them joke about ‘not that old steering wheel again’ but I didn’t know if it was the punchline of a joke or not. I didn’t want to know, either. In fact, about the time my mom left or disappeared or whatever, the mayor’s wife had left him. She had taken their daughter and left. He was outraged. My father tended more toward sadness. I wondered if either of them were actually feeling genuine emotions, or just acting whatever part seemed to get them the most sympathy and attention from other women. The more I saw of it, the gladder I was I liked boys. As long as they didn’t grow up to be men like them.

  I knew nothing about the niece and nephew, not even their ages. There was not, however, a kids’ table.

  I was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Poor Dad had to answer it himself, having failed to hire a butler. The cook’s name was Mrs. Gomez and I wanted to sit on her lap and let her feed me morsels of everything. The kitchen had never smelled so good, unless it was way back in memory when Mom had filled it with lilacs from the garden. I’d always associate that smell with Mom, and in the springtime is when I missed her the most; usually. Now that it was summer and the lilacs’ bloom had gone, the roses that Chris nurtured almost took their place, at least scent-wise, but they would never quite bring the feeling of Mom back as the smell of lilacs did. Lilacs and roses, her two favorite scents.

  Remember how I’d learned that Jesus was pronounced ‘Hey Sue’ by his mother? He’d whispered to me that all his boyfriends thought it hysterical to yell his name when they came. I didn’t know what to think, other than awe at the ‘all my boyfriends’ part. Actually it kind of scared me a bit; I wasn’t quite ready for ‘all that’ whatever ‘all that’ might entail, like stuff you might—if you ever did that sort of thing—see on the internet. I’d heard there are gay porn sites…Ahem.

  Anyhow, the bell rang, Dad opened the door; voices rose and fell. My sister came to the kitchen door and twirled in her new dress. She looked so beautiful. I could never be mad at her for being Dad’s favorite. It hurt though. I was actually confused sometimes about my mixed feelings.

  “Come on,” she told me.

  All three of the kitchen help whistled, but Jesus winked at me. Mrs. Gomez smiled, but also cleared her throat with a disciplinary ‘Harrumph’. Jesus shoved me toward the door to the dining room. I didn’t want to leave him—or her. Or the food…

  There stood Dad’s doppelgänger. They both retained an air of ‘I’m Important; Look at Me!’ that seemed to be all they had left of ‘The Old Days’. Maybe that was a good thing, although I think they neither one had matured since then. They did some complicated punching each other’s shoulders and fists things, and then Mr. ‘Call me Mike’ Morrison, bald head, glasses, comb-over and expensive and ugly brown suit, plus huge black framed glasses that he bragged he got free ‘at the base’, pushed his niece and nephew forward. The girl was about fifteen, gangly and also wearing glasses, with a mouth full of braces. She looked so uncomfortable I wanted to hug her and feed her and call her George
—wait, what? Oh her name was Georgina, okay. Freckles and red hair, you’d expect braids but no, it was swept up in a do way too old for her. The nephew was about my age, surly and apparently wealthy in his own right. He probably drove a Beamer when he was home. But who was he when he was out? What the hell did that actually mean? It meant he was no better than me.

  And maybe not nearly as nice. I saw the way his dark eyes looked at my sister. My sister, mine—let me stress that. His black wavy hair was like Jesus’—my Jesus, not the original. Only this guy—what was his name? Could I just call him Whatzisname?—oh, what the—Cornelius? As in Vanderbilt? As in Wiscott, some relative—oh okay, the mayor’s sister’s son. The girl was invisible to almost everyone, and I think she liked it that way. She was the mayor’s brother’s child.

  Dad: “Oh THAT one!”

  Mike: “Good old Richard.”

  Both: “What a Dick!”

  The fist bump thing.

  I wanted to puke.

  Cornelius curled his full, red, lip. He needed to shave.

  My sister sighed. “Georgina? Would you like to come up and see my room?”

  The girl smiled. “Thank you, and please call me Gene.”

  Mike frowned. He sighed. “Kids, whatareyougonnado?”

  I bolted for the kitchen, calling back, “Let me just see…” Yes she had definitely said ‘Gene’ and not ‘Jean’. I knew. It reminded me of what my sister had said, so long ago. I saw how they looked at each other. Did they have trans-dar like we had gay-dar? I had to grin.

  They were really busy in the kitchen and anyway I could hear my dad muttering about ‘kids, so rude these days,’ so as soon as I got my grin under control, I strolled back into the hall. “All is well,” I said as if Dad would let it be any other way. “Corn…”

  “My friends call me ‘Conn’.” There was no smile.

  I got the message. “Cornelius,” I said gracefully, my eyelid twitching, “Would you like to…” but he had turned and walked into the living room with his uncle and my father. I was at a loss, feelings coming up at me that I didn’t want—who the hell did he think he was? And a bit of feeling sorry for myself, which I suppose is what ‘Cornelius’ would have wished for.

  I wandered back into the kitchen. Mrs. Gomez shook a wooden spoon at me and I broke into a big, if tentative, smile. Jesus gave me a hug, while the other two stood there gaping. Jesus winked at them and they blushed and got back to work, embarrassed. Mrs. G. narrowed her eyes. She looked me right in the face and said quietly, “Go fake it. They don’t care. You be proud, like Jesus.”

  Jesus smiled. “Mama,” he asked, “Can I spit in Cunt’s food?”

  Her smile disappeared. “Jesus!” she gasped. “You watch your mouth!”

  “Oh, dear,” the little minx said. “Did I pronounce it wrong? These English words, not my first language you know, so hard to…” and he ran and ducked from her arm flying out in his direction with that wooden spoon in her clenched fist.

  Jesus smiled that beautiful grin he had. He took the spoon away from his mother. “Mom’s broken six of these, just on me!” he said teasingly, which brought a big smile to his mother’s face.

  Thus it was I went into dinner with a smile on my face. There were the four of us teenagers, all as different as possible, well, almost. I felt my sister and I should be the two most alike, and also the two closest to normal, which almost made me start giggling, but Chris and Gene, well, I didn’t feel too badly about being on the outside of that. The two adults were at the head and foot of the table, the places of honor (as it should be, according to them, I’m sure.) And then there is the kitchen help, well, one in particular. He’s a player in this scene as well. You’ll just have to see for yourself.

  Dad said grace. I tried very hard not to look at my sister or it would all be over. The hypocrisy was just too much for me since all other nights were mostly his rotten cooking and a bunch of cuss words.

  Dad: “Blah blah blah the county assessor, what an ass, did you know he keeps double books?”

  Mayor: “Hell yeah, but don’t do anything about it just yet, you see…wah wah wah.”

  Sis: “Mrs. Gomez, this is delicious. Gene, where do you go to school?”

  Corny: “Watch it, Jesus! You almost spilled the soup on my lap!”

  Server: “Oh I’m not Jesus, sorry sir. I’m Jose; Jesus is my brother.”

  Corny: rolls eyes until they disappear. His lip curls.

  Me: after a short snort of stifling giggles. “Cornelius, what school do you go to?”

  Corny: “I attend the Governor’s School for the Gifted. I’m sure you wouldn’t have heard of it.”

  Mayor, leaning forward: “It’s very exclusive. It’s a feeder school for Harvard.”

  Me, dripping sweetness: “How very nice for you.”

  The mayor again: “Oh no, it’s very nice for them to have him. You don’t know how lucky they are. His grades alone will raise their…”

  Cornelius smirks. “Now, Uncle Mike, I’m sure he’s not interested in the ways of the elite.”

  Me, forgetting Dad always gets revenge later: “You’re absolutely right. I couldn’t care less. How about more soup? Jesus, more soup!”

  This is like a play. An awful, terrible play like ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’, that is, awful, in the sense that someone’s gonna die. Jesus enters. Jesus smiles. “More soup for you, Cunt, sir?” Closely followed by a bumping, silent thump, a quiet ‘oops, clumsy me’.

  Corny: “Damnit! All over my fucking suit? Are you crazy? You did that on purpose!” Cornelius leaps to his feet and pea green soup drips down his white shirt, onto his pants, and thus to the chair and carpet below.

  Jesus: “I’m so sorry. Look at that carpet. Isn’t that a hand-knotted antique French Aubusson? Oh my, what a shame. I’ll get a mop right away.” And he sets the serving container down on Cornelius’ plate, which makes it tip, and more vile looking but delicious soup tips onto the white cuff of Cornelius’ shirt, and all over his Rolex watch—and into his crotch.

  Now we’re back to a normal meal, because the cussing starts from three directions.

  Even I am aghast. “Dad, we have company!”

  Sis: “Excuse us, please, Georgina and I will go powder our noses.”

  I stand up as the ladies leave.

  I am the only one who maintains some pretense of dignity and political correctness, and believe me it’s a very fragile and contrived control. Like Mrs. G. said, “fake it,” and boy did I fake it. The fact that I can hear muffled, but hysterical, screams of laughter from behind the closed bathroom door down the hall doesn’t help. The Spanish being screamed in the kitchen doesn’t help either. I don’t speak Spanish but I know Mrs. G. is cussing too. Then Cornelius the Hero Boy steps toward me. He lowers his head so his eyes are even with mine. I feel like I should be quaking, that I should be wearing glasses and a plaid bowtie, something dorky and insecure. “This is your fault; you and that other queer in the kitchen. You’re probably his boyfriend. Is he boning you, is that it? Are you jealous you can’t have me? You’re jealous of the real men? You’ll never…” I can see his fists clenching, making the pea soup on his watch dribble onto his expensive-looking shoes.

  I can’t help it. I find I’m not only nodding fatuously but twitching my lips and winking at him. Oh dear God, why did you give me a sense of humor? Please, no. He’s raising his arm. He’s going to punch me. He’s probably going to kill me. I make kissy noises with my lips.

  A big black-sleeved arm is between us. “Cornelius, no, don’t make things worse than they are. You don’t want to lower yourself to his level.” Over his shoulder Uncle Mayor looks at the growling, white face of my father. “I’m so sorry, Jasper. I had no idea. I assure you…”

  “Go to your room,” my old man growls at me. He hates anyone to use his first name.

  My mouth opens. Oh, God no. Oh yes. I say pertly, “Can I take my boyfriend with me then?” I cock my head to one side and poke a finger in my nonexistent
dimple. I figure if I’m doing to die, then why not enjoy it, right?

  But oddly enough, my dad’s face creases and then he’s stern again. His eyes betray him. “Why not?” he laughs, a short bark leaking out of him before he can stop it. “Good one, son!”

  I picture Jesus leaping into the dining room with a cape and mask, screaming, “Here I am to save the day!” and I escape with my life and some of my dignity, only I don’t go to my room because they are in the same direction and I find as I turn my back that I am about to cry. So I head for the comfort of my hiding place in the basement. Once down there, in the dark, behind the couch, I curl up into a ball and the tears flood down my face. I’ve never acted like that before and frankly, I don’t know why I did now.

  After a while, still with no idea why my mood changed, I gradually calm down. I’ve heard the guests leave and the kitchen help leave. I’ve heard the dishwasher start and the girls come out of the bathroom; wait, what? Girls plural? They forgot Georgina? I almost laughed. My mood was all over the place. I had no idea why my dad had laughed. Did he know? Did he suspect I was gay, no, he wouldn’t laugh; he’d kill me. I didn’t get it. I turned onto my back and lay there on the cold concrete in my good suit. I wanted my mom. I wanted my mommy. At the very least, I wanted to know if she was all right, or if she were even alive.

  I’m aware that kids are supposed to always blame themselves. I don’t think it was my fault and definitely not my sister’s fault that Mom had left, or disappeared. Dad said she had left. I had never questioned that. What if she hadn’t left voluntarily like he indicated? I hoped I’d live long enough to find out, that’s all.