Can I Get An Amen? (23 page)

When we arrived back at the house, my father came out to the driveway to help Aunt Kathy with her bags. “Roger, honey.” She pulled him into her big, silicone chest. “How you holding up?” she whispered.

My father smiled patiently. Being around both my mother and Aunt Kathy always seemed to exhaust him, and I expected that he would be spending more time than usual in his office. “Fine, Kath. Good to see you,” he said, as he picked up one of her two suitcases, which he lifted up and down like it was a barbell. “What do you have in here? Bricks?” My father was a firm believer in tried-and-true jokes, so we all gave him the requisite chuckle.

“Honey, I’m staying for three weeks! Plus, I had to bring y’all Christmas presents.”

“Kathy!” scolded my mother, who was older than her sister
by only twelve months. “I told you that we are keeping things simple this Christmas. It’s not going to be a big to-do.” When my father first began making money, our Christmases mushroomed into enormous, epic events. They threw lavish parties, had family portraits taken, and surrounded our huge, beautifully decorated tree with mountains of presents. But over the past couple of years, the parties had stopped, the gifts became more restrained, and the mood turned increasingly more subdued.

“Oh hush, Patty. I didn’t go overboard.”

I grabbed Aunt Kathy’s other bag while my mother and Aunt Kathy rushed ahead into the house, oblivious of the Sherpas behind them.

“Three weeks, huh?” my father said to me.

“Three weeks.”

The Bloody Marys were already in the mix by the time we got inside. Aunt Kathy was playing bartender. “Y’all want one?” she asked.

My father declined, but I accepted. “Sure, thanks.”

She pulled a jar of horseradish from the fridge, then bumped the door closed with her hip, as comfortable as if it were her own kitchen. “I like
lots
of horseradish,” she said as she twisted off the cap, careful not to nick her long, magenta nails.

While my mother had long attempted to at least blend in with the Yankees among whom she lived, Aunt Kathy was still larger-than-life southern. She was wearing a teal, off-the-shoulder sweater that showcased her new DD cups, and she always,
always
looked like she had just had her makeup done by Mary Kay. Her breasts were huge, her hair was huge, and her personality was huge. My mother was wearing a black cashmere turtleneck that she had owned for years, fitted houndstooth
pants, and a black velvet headband. As I regarded both of them, it seemed that though they had almost identical faces, they were from different planets.

“Here,” said Aunt Kathy, sliding me a giant glass that was almost overflowing and tapping it with her fingernail. “I guarantee that that’s going to be the best Bloody Mary you’ve ever tasted.” Aunt Kathy said this every time she made Bloody Marys.

She took a substantial sip of her own and slapped the counter with her open palm. “That is exactly what I needed after that flight!”

My mother looked utterly delighted, like a child being entertained by the antics of the class clown.

“Ellen,” said Aunt Kathy, brushing her bangs, which were nearly immobilized with hair spray, away from her face. “Ready to feel me up yet?” She again leaned forward with her chest, ready for a grope.

I reached forward and gave Aunt Kathy’s chest a two-handed squeeze.

“My word, Kathy!” said my mother, pretending to be embarrassed.

“Aren’t they natural?” asked Aunt Kathy. “I went to one of those Hollywood doctors. He does all the movie stars’ tits.”

“Oh, Kathy. That’s enough,” said my mother, now blushing.

Aunt Kathy rolled her eyes. “Patty, they’re just boobs. Good Lord.” She gave me a wink. “And Ellen may want a pair of these one day when she meets a new man.”

My mother crossed her arms, her thoughts instantly and obviously turning to
the Buddhist
.

Aunt Kathy looked first at my mother and then at me, and let her mouth drop open. “Have you met someone?” She swatted my hand and gave me a grin. “And no one told me?”

“Not really; I mean, I’ve been on a couple of dates,” I said, hiding my smile behind my glass.

“He’s a Buddhist,” interjected my mother, giving Kathy a look as she took a sip of her drink.

Aunt Kathy reacted like she might if my mother had just announced that he was a drug dealer. Or a pimp. “Oh, Ellen,” she said, scrunching her face into a concerned grimace, “you’re dating a
Buddhist
?”

“He’s not a Buddhist, you guys. He was a religion minor.”

Aunt Kathy and my mother exchanged looks. Anyone who spent any time studying any religion other than Christianity was highly suspect and, as my mother would say, “opening themselves up” to false gods.

Though Aunt Kathy changed the subject, my mother’s mood seemed to have soured. I finished my drink and excused myself, pulling my cell phone out of my purse on the way up to my room and seeing a text from Mark:

Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.

I
squinted at the map I had printed out as I wove my way through the working-class neighborhood in which Mark lived. I had insisted on picking him up, rather than vice versa. My mother was enough to handle without the double trouble of Aunt Kathy being in town; I wasn’t ready to put Mark through that just yet.

His house was number 65, a small gray ranch on a quiet but densely packed street. The area was blue-collar, inhabited by working people who mowed their lawns, shopped at supercenters, and ate steak on their birthdays. Most of the houses had Christmas lights wrapped haphazardly around trees and porches; some went the extra mile and had giant inflatable snow globes and glowing Santas. Thankfully, Mark’s did not. He did not have so much as a wreath, which my mother and Aunt Kathy would have added to their growing body of evidence against him.

I parked in his driveway and made my way up the poured-concrete path to his front door, pressing the doorbell to hear the classic ding-dong, a sound bite of Americana. A few moments
later, Mark was there. He was pulling on a long-sleeve T-shirt as he opened the door. His hair was still wet and he had that damp look about him, as if he’d just showered.

“Hey,” he said, placing his hand on my back and kissing me in that ambiguous zone between my mouth and my cheek. “Come on in.”

I stepped over the threshold and he shut the door behind me. “Why don’t you sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a nondescript-looking beige couch. “I’ll just be a minute.” As he strode off, I took in my surroundings.

The front door opened to the living room, the most dominant feature of which was the wall of built-in shelves devoted entirely to densely packed books. A few pieces of tribal-looking art and nature photography hung from the walls, and a dhurrie rug covered the old oak floors, but the room was notably devoid of ornamentation. There was a decent stereo, but only a very small, very old TV on a worn wooden stool. On the rustic wood coffee table lay a notebook from which folded sheets of paper and the shredded spines of spiral-bound tried to escape. From my vantage point, the kitchen looked dated but serviceable, with white cabinets and a linoleum floor. Instead of a table and chairs, the dining room had a weight bench and racks of free weights. The house was immaculately clean and looked like the sometimes residence of a traveling monk.

I assumed that the hallway down which Mark had disappeared led to the bedrooms, as there was no second story. And as I peered toward the series of doors, Mark emerged from the farthest one.

“I would show you around but there’s not much to the place.” It was true; the kitchen and dining room were off the living room, so most of the house could be seen from the couch.

“No, it’s great,” I replied, happy that I hadn’t walked into the typical bachelor pad, with black leather couches, an enormous TV, and recent Victoria’s Secret catalogues strewn carelessly about.

“You ready?” he asked, pulling on a wool coat that looked like it came from an army surplus store.

I hesitated for a moment, disappointed that he seemed to be rushing us out, but I glanced at the digital clock next to his stereo and saw that we really did need to get going if we were going to have any time at the museum before it closed. “Ready,” I answered.

I rarely drove into the city myself; keeping up with the lurching sea of cabs and then finding parking always seemed too daunting. But today I did. Before we entered the Lincoln Tunnel, I said a silent prayer, just as my mother always had. I hated knowing that the weight of the Hudson River hung above us, above all the steel and concrete. “It’s just a matter of time,” she always used to say, shaking her head at the impending doom of the collapsing tunnel, referencing a terrorist attack when such a thing seemed ridiculously implausible, the stuff of science fiction. I preferred bridges. You might stand a chance with a bridge. You might be able to open a window and slide out into the freezing, filthy water, kicking furiously toward that first, gasping breath. Mark seemed to notice my discomfort and rested his hand on my knee as the car sped into the dark.

With some help from Mark, I found the MoMA and a convenient lot. We walked through the Rigauraut exhibition, holding hands, adopting the hushed voices and careful footsteps of the rest of the visitors. “It’s amazing,” he commented, looking circumspect, “but so dark.” In the main collection, Mark gravitated
to the nonrepresentational pieces, the Pollacks, the Rothkos, while I liked the surprise of the familiar differently expressed: the way Picasso treated a woman’s body, the way Matisse showed movement. As we went from room to room, I thought about how we must appear, what we must look like: a couple. The kind that goes to museums together, reads together in bed, travels and cooks and writes each other long letters. I squeezed Mark’s hand. He looked at me curiously. “I’m just happy that you’re next to me,” I said. I had missed having someone next to me.

After we had walked much of the museum, I lifted Mark’s arm to check his watch. “We have to go,” I said, not wanting to leave the quiet calm of the museum and head back into the chaos of the streets.

. . .

Luke and Mitch were already sitting at the trendy hotel bar when we arrived. When they saw us, they gave Mark an immediate but subtle once-over, looking pleasantly surprised.

After I quickly hugged both of them, I introduced Mark.

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Mark with his characteristic subdued confidence, his effortless warmth. He shook Luke’s hand first and then Mitch’s.

“Yeah, likewise,” said Luke.

Mark immediately launched into friendly banter while we waited for our drinks, asking them about where in the city they lived, mentioning landmarks that they knew.

“There used to be a great record shop right around the corner from there,” he said to Mitch, who lived in the East Village.

“Oh right. What’s it called…?” Mitch snapped his fingers to summon the name. “Sonic Slip Records?”

“Yes! Sonic Slip!” responded Mark, pointing at Mitch.

“It’s still there. The guy who owns it is that old Keith Richards look-alike.”

“Does he still wear leather pants?” asked Mark.

“Every day.” He and Mitch shared a laugh that Luke and I joined, even though we weren’t familiar with the record shop or the owner. The mood just had that convivial glow that made you want to laugh, to agree, to get along.

“How do you know the city so well?” asked Luke.

“I went to school here.”

“Where?” asked Mitch.

“Columbia,” said Mark matter-of-factly.

The bartender—an attractive, icy blonde with Nordic features—smiled demurely as she handed Mark his beer and my wine. He thanked her politely and turned back to our group, looking at me a bit longer than necessary as he passed me my glass.

The conversation inevitably turned to work, with Mitch complaining about chronically late writers and sloppy work.

“What do you do, Mark?” asked Luke, making sure Mitch didn’t go on for too long, showcasing the good, southern manners that our mother had brought us up with.

Mark sank his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, looking like he had just lost his train of thought. “Oh, I, uh, work for a nonprofit,” he answered.

“Doing what?” asked Mitch lightly.

“I guess I would be called the executive director,” said Mark, seeming almost uncomfortable with his answer, like it just didn’t fit right. I wondered if he was happy with the path he had chosen. His work was undoubtedly difficult and sometimes thankless, the type of job that was as challenging as any six-figure position, but without the traditional rewards.

“What’s it called, the nonprofit?” asked Mitch.

“The Need Alliance.”

“Interesting…” Mitch repeated the name.

Mark excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he was out of sight, Luke and Mitch gave their effusive approval.

“Elle, I really like him,” said Luke, crossing his arms over his chest, playing the part of the protective older brother.

Mitch agreed. “He seems like a really good guy.”

“Yeah, I like the whole do-gooder, nonprofit thing he has going on,” said Luke. “Plus it doesn’t hurt that he is
gorgeous
.”

Mitch gently nudged Luke with his elbow. “Hey, remind me to check out his charity later. It may be a good one for Christmas this year.”

Luke made a disgusted throat-clearing noise, then turned to me to explain. “Mitch’s family makes charitable donations every year instead of giving each other gifts. Can you believe that?”

“Oh, come on,” said Mitch. “Lots of families do that.”

“No families we know,” said Luke, looking at me for corroboration. “And don’t get any ideas about messing with
my
gift. We Carlisles like material goods, things that can be wrapped and, if needed,
exchanged
.”

We had one more round of drinks before Mitch and Luke left to go see a movie, and Mark and I went out in search of dinner. “Let’s just grab a slice,” Mark had suggested, which seemed appealingly low-key after the art exhibition and swank bar. Sitting at the counter of one of the interchangeable, ubiquitous New York–style pizzerias that litter the city, we faced the street and watched the human traffic march purposefully by, with cell phones pressed to their faces and ears plugged with headphones. They walked with deliberate oblivion past the muttering, pacing homeless woman who had begun patrolling the sidewalk next to the door.