Brownie Points (17 page)

Crouching on the floor with my hand in her purse, I had little credibility.

“You’re so paranoid, Val,” Marni said. “I asked Lisa to grab my Blackberry, and as you can see,” she said, exhibiting her purse as if for a moron, “you and I have very similar looking purses.”

“Oh,” Val said, then continued her interrogation. “Why is Blake calling you, Marni?!”

“Look, Val, if you’re asking if I’m having an affair with your husband, the answer is no,” Marni said.

Val was taken aback by her directness. Accusations and denials were typically shrouded in hint and innuendo. Marni had neither the time nor interest in Utopian customs. She cut to the chase, one of the many things I admired about her.

Since we were the only ones who walked to the Bunco game, Marni and I shared a quick chat on the half-block trek back to our homes. “Thanks for helping me out with Val back there,” I said.

“No problem,” she said. With a laugh, Marni added, “Anything you stole we split fifty-fifty, okay?”

“You got it,” I returned. “I can’t believe she thought you were having an affair with that dumpy husband of hers.”

Marni laughed. “You couldn’t pay me enough to have sex with that guy.”

As we made it to the front of her house, I stopped and hoped she’d invite me in. “How’s your film coming along?” I asked. She knit her brow. “The survivalist naturalists?”

“It’s going okay,” she said, digging her keys from her purse. To be invited inside, I would need to be in the midst of a discussion with Marni.

“They had a piece in
Mother Jones
about naturalist colonies in New Mexico. Did you read it?”

“I’ll have to check it out,” Marni said, starting to step toward her walkway.

“You know, I think I’ve still got it lying around,” I offered.
Right on the kitchen counter, as a matter of fact.
“Would you like to come inside and I’ll grab it for you?”

“Oh, no thanks,” Marni said. “I can get the article online tomorrow. I’ve got some bookkeeping to get done tonight.”

“Okay, no problem,” I said lightly. “Another time then.”

I stood waiting for her response, but got nothing but the clacking of her heels against the stone walkway to her home. I couldn’t believe this woman didn’t see me as a kindred spirit in Utopia, yet she made time for cell phone chats with the Beast. What was wrong with this place?!

Chapter Seventeen

January

Logan’s spirits sank as soon as we returned to Utopia after our San Francisco day-trip a few weeks earlier. We tried filling his calendar with activities, but nothing would lift his mood. I even took him back to the city a few days later for the annual “Jingle Joust” fencing tournament, but seeing his old friends made him even gloomier when we returned to Utopia.

I had hoped that the New Year would be a fresh start for Logan, but the only one who had made a dramatic transformation was Maya. When the kids returned to school, Maya’s social studies teacher told the kids that, in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, they were going to do a report on the most important person in African-American history, Abraham Lincoln. The following day, the school held an assembly with legendary civil rights lawyer Oliver Waxman. He had her at hello.

At the dinner table that evening, Maya told us about the slide show he put on, where the kids saw photos of Rosa Parks in jail, Martin Luther King Jr. at the march on Washington, and Ruby Bridges breaking color lines at her school. What blew Maya away was that these shots were taken with Oliver Waxman’s very own camera. He was there for every one of these historic events. In some of the pictures, one could see his nearly translucent white hand draped over someone’s shoulder. Waxman joked with the kids that his hand had been in the newspaper more than his face.

Jason and I had heard Oliver Waxman speak on news clips and in rallies, and knew how inspiring he could be. It was no wonder his visit had begun Maya’s period of black identification.

Imitating his southern drawl, Maya recalled what he told the students. “Every one of these people up here on this screen is no different from you. What makes a person a hero is their courage to stand up and fight for what they believe in.”

“Amen to that,” Jason said.

Enjoying center stage, Maya held out her hand like a preacher who had more to say. “What makes a hero is the courage to give this great nation the kick in the pants it sometimes needs in order to live up to its promise of liberty … and justice for all.”

Joining the fun, I added, “Preach, Sister Maya.”

Logan smiled, but seemed apprehensive that evening. Now I know why.

“I can’t believe Oliver Waxman was at your school,” Jason said, nodding his head with regret that he’d missed his talk. “What’s he doing up here anyway?”

Maya explained that he and his wife had recently retired to Los Corderos after having spent the past year restoring an old farmhouse. “He said we could call him Wax.”

“Does he still speak like a Baptist preacher?” Jason asked.

Logan laughed. “Yeah, it’s kind of funny how passionate he gets.”

I added, “He’s the only Jewish guy I’ve ever heard who sounds like Jesse Jackson. He can really get a crowd going.”

“He really can,” Maya confirmed. Imitating Wax, she said, “He’s vera, vera rousing.”

Between the afternoon assembly and our evening dinner, Maya managed to find an African print fabric and wrap it around her head like a Kenyan. After coming up empty-handed at the fabric shop, Maya shrewdly went to Bed Bath & Beyond and found “Wild Thing” sheets on the clearance table. She looked beautiful, but this new look was going to take some getting used to.

“Tell them the rest, Maya,” Logan said.

“Okay, so after he’s done, I go up to Wax — to thank him for all he’s done for our people and all — and I ask if it’s discrimination for a group to deny someone membership to a club because of their gender.”

“I do not like where this is going,” Jason said, shaking his head. Maya continued. “So he’s all, ‘Heck yes, young lady. Who’s denying you access? Little League, auto shop?’ So I tell him that it’s actually Logan who’s being discriminated against.”

“By Girl Scouts?” Jason asked. “I thought we were done with all that. Things are going well, Logan. Why do you need to start up with this again?”

“Who are they going well for, Daddy?” Logan asked.

I literally held my tongue between my teeth, realizing that I had to let my son fight his own battles, even at home.

Jason’s forehead scrunched like an accordion. “You! They’re going well for you, Logan.”

“I think what he’s trying to tell you is that they’re not,” Maya said.

Jason sighed, exasperated. “What do you think Oliver Waxman is gonna do for you, sue the Girl Scouts?”

Their silence answered our question.

“Oh no,” Jason said.

“It’s not fair the way he’s being treated, Daddy!” Maya protested.

Logan glanced at me to gauge my response. I smiled neutrally, my intended message being I love you, but this idea isn’t your best.

“That’s not grounds for a lawsuit,” Jason said, starting to boil.

“That’s what Wax said at first,” Maya told us. “He said Logan didn’t have a case because he could join Boy Scouts. But then we told him about how Boy Scouts doesn’t do cool crafts like Girl Scouts, and how Logan hates camping and getting dirty and all that kind of stuff.”

“Oh good Lord, what did he say to that?” Jason asked.

“He just looked at Logan for a couple seconds and said, ‘You like crafts, do you, son?’ ”

Logan finally spoke. “So naturally I told him that not only had I earned more craft patches than anyone else in the troop, I also sewed them on their vests.”

Maya said Wax gave Logan the once-over, then asked him about his other interests. “So Logan tells him he’s into art and he loves to fence, but there are no places out here to practice.”

Jason interrupted urgently, “What about boxing? We’ve been training every week. You didn’t mention that?”

I looked at Jason and gave him a subtle shake of the head. My husband was trying his best, but he definitely had his moments when he backslid. A few weeks ago, he asked Logan if he wanted to go hunting with some of the firefighters and their sons. He offered to buy a classic car and restore it with him as a father-son project. It was hard to know when to step in. On one hand, I didn’t want Jason to suppress his very real anxiety about having a gay son. On the other hand, as a mother I couldn’t let him do so at the expense of Logan’s well-being.

“I like boxing, but I wouldn’t put it on my top ten list,” Logan answered Jason.

“Top twenty?” Jason asked desperately.

“Yeah, probably.”

Maya brought us back to the conversation with Wax. “So then he says there is one possibility,” she told us. Apparently, Boy Scouts has a longstanding policy of discriminating against atheists and homosexuals. Imitating Wax’s voice, Maya said, “Any chance you’re an atheist, son?” Maya reported that at that point she jumped in and offered, “No, but he’s totally gay.”

Both kids’ eyes shifted from Jason to me and back again. We sat still for what seemed like forever before Jason finally said, “And …?”

We all exhaled. “See, I told you they knew,” Maya said. I was grateful that Logan’s coming out was followed by nothing more than a conjunction from his father. But I was also terrified by the thought of what my daughter would say next. “So Wax said he’ll do some digging and see what he comes up with.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a business card with a home phone number written across the top. “He says that you and Daddy should call him on Monday to talk.”

“To talk?” Jason asked. “To talk about what?!”

“About suing the Girl Scouts,” Maya said.

“Your father is right, you can’t sue Girl Scouts,” I told Logan. “After everything Michelle has done for you, you can’t sue the troop. You know she tried her best.”

“I wouldn’t be suing the troop, and it’s not like I want their money or anything!” Logan said. “I only want what’s fair.”

Jason piped in. “You want what’s fair?! Do you know how many things in life aren’t fair?”

Maya snapped, “Should we roll over and accept that, or fight back like on
Amistad
?!”

Jason recoiled at the comparison. “Maya, Girl Scouts of America is not a slave ship!”

“What if it was white scouts?” Maya escalated.

“Do you know how offensive this is, Maya?” Jason snapped.

“Daddy, you are not the only black person in this room,” she said, now standing with one hand on the table. Jason then rose and mirrored her pose.

Logan and I looked at each other, half worried, half amused. Always the peacemaker, he tried to interject, “Please don’t fight over me.”

Maya’s eyes were locked on her father, who looked at her with equal intensity. “We’re not fighting over you, Logan,” she said. “We’re fighting over right and wrong.”

“Maya,” Jason said through gritted teeth, “in the opinion of this black man, it is insulting to compare the 400-year oppression of African-Americans to Logan not being allowed to sell Girl Scout cookies.”

I was about to chime in and tell Jason I thought he was trivializing the issue a bit, but Maya spoke first. “So, you think it’s okay to discriminate against gay people, but not black people?”

“When did this turn into a gay thing?” Jason barked.

“I’m pretty sure I was born that way,” Logan said.

They looked at him, befuddled. “They meant the issue, not you, honey,” I whispered.

Jason looked at Logan and said, “Look, Logan, I love you, you know that. Gay, straight, it doesn’t matter to me.”

At that point, I was ready to throw lavender confetti at him and dub him the grand marshal of the Gay Pride Parade Marni and I would someday organize. This concession, however, wasn’t good enough for Maya. “Gee, Daddy, that’s so big of you. We love you too, even though you’re dark.”

“What?!” Jason shouted. “What the hell kind of thing is that to say to your father?!”

Logan spoke softly. “It’s kind of the same thing you just said to me.”

Jason gulped audibly.

Chapter Eighteen

Wax and his wife had done a spectacular job restoring their farmhouse. As Jason, the kids and I stepped through the front door for the first time, I marveled at how different it was from any other home we’d ever seen in Los Corderos. The ceilings stretched across the slanted roofline, exposing thick dark wood beams, which contrasted with the bright white surface. The chocolate-colored hardwood floors matched the beams perfectly, though they were mostly covered by a Chinese rug. The windows were circular, one overlapping the other, then framed with weathered brass. Nearly every inch of the walls was covered with original art, most of which was painted by Kate Parr, a radical Renaissance revisionist I worshipped in college art history classes. When I say every inch was covered by art, I mean there were paintings hanging at knee level and one small canvas inches above the floorboard. The living area was filled with provocative sculptures, tapestries and glass pieces. In the corner hung a mobile of multicolored paper circles about the size of hole-punch refuse. It was a freestyle mish-mash that all came together exquisitely.

Walking us into his home, Wax apologized that he no longer had an office, but I could not have been more thrilled to visit his museum of modern eclecticism.

Logan’s eyes scanned the room, drinking in its beauty too. “This place is amazing,” he said. “Did you use a decorator?”

“You really have quite an eye,” I said.

Maya was also taking in the surroundings, but Jason seemed unimpressed. His most important requirements for a home were that it had comfortable chairs, good insulation and a toilet that flushed easily.

Maya’s eyes lit up as she saw an African mask placed on a display of polished black stone. “Is that a Kumasi?” she asked. Jason and I shot each other a curious glance as Wax confirmed, impressed. “Tribal chiefs used to wear these during victory celebrations.”