Child of My Right Hand (19 page)

“You don't have to say that again,” he whispered

“What did I say?”

He moved her hand to his nipple, inserted his tongue between her lips. When next they paused, her panties dangled from an ankle, and his finger moved inside her.

She'd whispered, “Nothing wrong with your hearing.”

Now, carrying their clean laundry, Genna opened the bedroom door. “Come on, Jack.” She kissed him below a drowsy ear. “You, me, and Sam are going for a run.”

***

Every day at three, Simon sang Sir Harry. That was how he thought of it. He didn't play Sir Harry, he sang and sometimes danced him. During the production, he'd wear a red velvet tunic (Ms. Cherry had said he could design and sew it himself if he wanted) and carry a long wooden sword wrapped in foil to make it look like steel.

When he was little he'd loved swords. He spent years as He-Man slicing up Skeletor, but he was also He-Man's best friend Teela, the woman warrior. What astonishing boots women superheroes got to wear; he was always jealous. Simon had two poseable Teela figures, Brown and Red Teela, with different colored hard plastic hair. He'd slash and dash, playing Teela when he fought with his sword and shield wearing the bathrobe he pretended was Teela's short dress. How freaky was that! Teela was always beating the whiz out of everyone, the little dyke! Dad was always trying to get him to play football, but he wanted to play Teela and Skeletor. Some of that must have stuck, because here he was in grade eleven, running across the auditeria stage in his wide pants with velvet cuffs (too femme for Teela) to meet Tina Murphy who wore her blond hair up as Lady Larken, to announce his mission had succeeded. He'd found the Swamp Princess, who in her eagerness had swum the moat and climbed the castle wall, a real princess, if a little tacky and uncouth. Soon, You and I, oh my Lady Larken, will be married.

“Stop!” shouted Ms. Cherry, seated at one of the lunch tables in front of the stage.

Simon glanced at Lady Larken, who had a red zit like a Hindu prayer dot in the middle of her forehead. He ought to lend her some foundation. Lady Larken shrugged and looked annoyed, as if to say, What could they have done wrong, they hadn't even said their first lines?

Ms. Cherry, five-foot-one with bouncing curls, popped onto the stage.

“Simon, don't take this wrong.” She glanced at Tina then back to him. “I don't like the way you run.”

“Not fast enough?”

Ms. Cherry shook her head.

“Too fast?”

“Too…” Ms. Cherry's button eyes seemed to search his for the right word. “Too swishy, I guess.”

Simon's cheeks burned.

“Look,” Ms. Cherry said. “I'm not trying to embarrass you. But Sir Harry is like this big macho stud. He's running to tell Lady Larken he's done it! But instead of taking macho strides—”

Ms. Cherry retreated to stage left and ran towards them in a caricature of a manly run, swinging her arms, her little feet (no more than a size six, he thought), thudding against the stage, Oh, Lady Larken! she called, and grinned at them.

“—you're taking tiny steps and using entirely too much hip.”

She ran at them again, and Simon had to admit, she looked just like him. Little baby steps and lots of hip, like Marilyn Monroe in some old movie. “But that's how I run.”

“That's not how Sir Harry runs. Watch me again.”

Ms. Cherry ran across the stage, arms swinging, feet thudding, her curls bouncing, a campy version of a masculine trot.

“You try,” said Ms. Cherry.

So Simon ran across the stage with his wide pants swishing, his big feet thudding, swinging his arms, trying not to swing his hips, imitating Ms. Cherry imitating a man. When he drew up beside them he could see Ms. Cherry trying not to laugh.

“Pretty bad, huh?”

Ms. Cherry started to say something polite. Simon loved Ms. Cherry; it was almost like he could read her mind. She began to giggle, and it popped out of her. “No lie.”

Then he was laughing, and even Tina Murphy—who sometimes looked at him with this expression on her narrow face, like, You expect me to play a love scene with this????—was grinning.

Ms. Cherry said, through giggles, “Don't worry, you'll get it.”

“I can work on it with my dad, he's a jock.” He glanced at Tina, who was still grinning. “Or maybe you can get your boyfriend, Nick, to teach you, and you can teach me.”

At the mention of Nick Fleming, the mirth left Tina's face.

“Take it from the top,” Ms. Cherry said, starting down the stage steps.

“You want me to run in?”

“If you think you can.”

Simon retreated to stage left. He took a few, exaggerated running strides towards Lady Larken, gathered her in his massive arms and hugged her.

“Lady Larken!” he cried. “I have great news!”

Simon would never forget his first visit to Castro Street. They'd arrived in San Francisco the day before, Saturday afternoon. After they checked into the Bridge View—totally a dump, but San Francisco was expensive, Dad said, be grateful for beds, forget about a pool—they motored across the Golden Gate. They parked the rental—this really hot Mustang convertible (what had gotten into Mom and Dad?) that Simon begged to drive, but Dad kept insisting, No, he wasn't insured—on the shoulder below the tower of the bridge.

They climbed the path in reverse family order, Lizzie, Simon, Mom, and Dad, hiking as they used to in their California dream life, with a cloudless sky soaring above them like a blue cathedral, the rust-red tower rising up and up. Across the bay, a neighborhood of white matchbox houses huddled together, thousands and thousands. Far below—Simon almost couldn't bear to look—roiled the purple-blue waters of San Francisco Bay. Tiny sailboats, their wakes too small or light to be seen from such a height, dotted the Bay, while a massive cargo ship (Container, know-it-all-Dad said), steamed in from the ocean, cutting a path in the smooth tableau.

“It's really something.” Dad draped his arm over Simon's shoulder. “Isn't it?”

“Beautiful,” Simon admitted, wishing Dad would take his arm away.

“When Mom and I were courting, we used to come here at night and make out.”

Gross, Simon thought, then Dad removed his arm. Thank God.

Dad added, “I'm really glad I got to show it to you.”

Mom and Lizzie approached. They'd been off for a girls-only moment; Simon felt a pull of jealousy. Then Dad—he was always doing this kind of thing, Simon used to think he did it just to embarrass his kids, but no, it was just Dad in his Dadness being Dad—cornered some tourist, who already had a camera hanging from his neck like an anchor and asked him to snap their photo. The Barish family lined up with the bridge behind them and the cathedral sky overhead.

A few months before, Simon would have refused; he didn't like having his picture taken, and he certainly didn't appreciate Dad, who stood in the middle next to Mom, putting his arm around him again. But that was a few months ago. Today, they were touring San Francisco, gay capitol of the planet, and tomorrow, they were meeting his gay grandfather, how weird was that! Simon grinned; the tourist went snap-snap, then bowed and returned Dad's camera. Simon could tell it would be a great picture; he knew about such things, composition and light, the interplay of sea and sky.

Then they hiked down the hill and drove into Sausalito with all the beautiful hillside houses, the expensive shops, and sparkle of light on the Bay. Simon decided he would live here after he made his first million as a singer. Dad bought burgers (Simon and Lizzie), fish and chips (Mom and Dad), followed by this awesome Hawaiian ice cream, and didn't say a word when Simon ordered three scoops and sprinkles. (What was up with Dad?) They strolled and shopped until the day was swallowed by night.

As excellent as Saturday was, it didn't touch Sunday. Mom had been priming him for weeks. Dad had helped her find her biological father. Simon had never really liked Daddy, who was a stuck-up jerk most of the time, and not very nice, not even to Mom. Simon could tell Mom was incredibly pumped about meeting her real father, though she kept saying she wasn't, and that the most significant reason for the trip was for Simon to experience a gay-friendly world.

Who believed that? This was her dad (and his partner!) they'd be meeting, but Mom couldn't admit something this big was for her. So she'd talked for weeks in that way she had—like a professor, for God sakes, with all her opinions presented as facts, she couldn't help herself, that was Mom!—about the life-affirming gay images he'd see, the positive role models. Why, his grandfather and his partner had been together twenty years! After Mom's pep talks, Simon had concluded that San Francisco would be the opposite of Tipton, sort of like the Bizarro World in an old Superman he'd read. Gay guys would be the moonfaced assholes; as long as there was a world there'd be moonfaced assholes, assholes everlasting. Amen. They'd accost straight kids in high school hallways, growling, ‘Die, Straight-ee, die! You eat pussy!'

Because Simon didn't want to be mistaken for straight, and because Mom said he'd have an hour or two to walk around by himself before going to dinner with his gay grandfather and his partner—he still couldn't get his thoughts around that; he grinned, almost giggled when he said it in his head—Simon chose his outfit with utmost care. He was awake long before Lizzie, trying on combinations. Definitely big pants, but red velvet cuffs or green? After thirty mirror minutes, while Lizzie slept like Rip Van Ludes, he selected the green then the red, then the green and finally the red, because it made him look just a little bit thinner. He'd wear his gray ribbed cotton tee, but which over shirt? Fish-net? The long sleeve blue button-down? After he'd modeled everything in his suitcase twice, he asked Lizzie, who pillowed her face and refused to look, the little brat. Simon knocked on the connecting door to Mom and Dad's room.

Dad growled, “Who is it?”

“Simon.”

“Go back to bed.”

He put his mouth near the door, whispered, urgently, “I need to talk.”

Voices, footsteps. The door opened; the curtains were still drawn. Dad's big butt in boxers retreated to the bed, where Mom sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“What is it?”

“I was trying to decide what to wear.” He held up the blue button-down, then the red short sleeve tee to which he'd sewn fish-net extensions. “What do you think?”

“It's seven-thirty in the goddamn morning.”

Jerk.

“The blue,” Mom said. “You're going to find the gay community dresses more conservatively than you think.”

She held out her arms. He hugged her, and she smelled like morning Mom, musky, fusty, slumberous.

“You want to crawl in?”

Simon remembered all the times he'd slept between them, warm, protected. He shook his head.

“Let Lizzie sleep, you know she likes to.” Mom stroked his cheek. “You'll look fine, dear, you're really very handsome.”

He didn't believe her, but smiled and let himself out. Hours later, they went to breakfast. Hours after that, after examining every T-shirt in every T-shirt shop on Fisherman's Wharf, they drove to the Castro. The first thing Simon noticed, still in the car, were rainbow banners arching over the street, then rainbow flags in all the shop windows. And men, men everywhere. Tall men, short ones, white men, brown ones, bald men holding hands. Men with bare muscular arms wrapped around each other. The Barish family rental coasted down Castro. Simon's left leg twitched so badly he thought he'd explode into song. Whoops, I did it again! Dad found a spot on a side street two blocks from Castro and backed into it; good job, Simon admitted, parallel parking. Soon they stood on the cool, sunny pavement. An old guy, maybe fifty, bald and hulking, strode towards them, black leather pants and vest, tattoos twining up and down his biceps. Simon watched him pass, avoided eye contact, his heart fluttering like a bird's.

Mom said, “Let's walk to Castro.”

“Are you crazy?” Simon hissed. “I'm not walking with you.”

“Until we find Sweet's Sweets.” Mom glanced anxiously at Dad. “Where we're going to meet later.”

“I'm not walking with you.”

“We could be halfway there,” Dad said. “If you'd stop fighting.”

Simon crossed his arms. “I'd rather be dead than walk with you.”

“Drama queen,” Lizzie said.

“What?” Mom exclaimed.

“Mind your damn business, Dizzy Lizzie.” He'd get her for that.

“That was out of line, Lizzie.” Dad playing peacemaker, imagine that. “And Simon, think about Mom. You're not the only one stressed here. Why don't you walk twenty paces ahead? We'll follow behind like chattel.”

Simon had no effing idea what chattel was, some kind of cow? “No, I'll walk behind you. What the hell is Sweet's Sweets anyway?”

“It's a chocolate shop.” Mom's lip trembled. Her nostrils quivered as if she might start crying. Then she was crying.

“Mom!”

She wiped a single tear from each cheek. “A chocolate shop my father owns.”

Mom looked as if she might start crying again. His mom crying on the street! In the Castro! He stepped forward and hugged her

“I'm sorry.” He stepped back. “I'll be right behind you.”

Dad mouthed, Thank you, then he, Mom, and Lizzie started. When they were almost to the corner, Simon threw his shoulders back, checked his collar was straight, ha-ha, and Simon Barish, young gay god, grandson of a gay grandfather, set out after his family, to cruise the Castro for the very first time.

***

Simon walked away from Sweet's Sweets. They'd given him twenty dollars (he'd asked for fifty, eyes wide, extravagantly hopeful), then arranged to return in an hour and a half. Genna watched Simon's big jeans with red velvet cuffs until they disappeared in a sea of narrower, less flamboyant inseams, mostly khaki. How she loved that boy, who was always himself no matter the context. Who could have imagined this eighteen years ago, feeling the baby kick? Taking her gay son to the Castro and waving goodbye as he walked off as if for his first day of kindergarten. Or this: Simon at the bima for his Bar Mitzvah, surrounded by all the beaming Barishes, by Billy and his family, too, who'd looked pleased but out of place, which was very much how she felt right now.

“Well,” Jack asked, “are you going in?”

Of course. Hadn't she mortified the children with her crying? Jack looped an arm over Lizzie. She was getting up there, taller already than Genna, but still Daddy's girl, even in her new independent phase.

“Lizzie and I will come in, or you can meet him alone. We won't be insulted.”

Lizzie nodded, hair and dark eyes shining.

Genna admitted, “I would like to.”

Behind the plate glass store-front, on a bed of doilies, rose a three-tiered display of cut-glass candy dishes topped with truffles and creme-filleds, fluted shells of white, dark, and milk chocolate, an array of dried fruit, apricot, pineapple, mangos, and others she didn't recognize, dipped in bittersweet. Small pink signs promised Homemade Fudge and Gaylord's Gelato. At the bottom right corner, black letters painted directly on the glass proclaimed: Dennis Sweetwater & Martin White, Proprietors. Genna glanced at Jack, and for the first time in years and years she heard her mother's voice deliver a favorite admonition: Genna, don't slump. Professor Genna Barish, nee Gordon, rolled her shoulders up and back, grasped the heavy brass knob and entered Sweet's Sweets, which was small and perfumed, over-decorated, stuffed with antique display cases. A tall black man eyed her from behind the oak counter. Receding cropped hair, gray temples, lengthened an already long and narrow face.

“My guess, you're Genna.”

She nodded.

“Marty.” He circled the counter, legs sheathed in gabardine, and presented an elegant hand. “Sweets,” he whispered and motioned with his eyes, “is hiding in back.”

She clasped Marty's cool palm.

“Mister Sweetwater!” Marty called. “There's someone here to see you.”

The bead-covered back doorway parted. A medium-sized portly man looking neither old nor young stepped through. He had a fleshy face, a nose remarkable for how straight and narrow it was, luxuriant gray-white hair combed straight back. He wore a silver ascot tucked into a pale peach shirt and gazed at her with blue-gray eyes.

“Denny?”

“Call me Sweets, everyone does.”

She pressed her cheek to his. They were nearly the same height.

“Please,” he said, seeing she was weeping. “Please, don't.”

His face was worn and warm, endearing when he smiled, attractive, if not classically handsome, much like Simon's. At the thought of Simon, she began to cry again.

“If you keep it up,” he said, “I'll be crying too.”

“Believe it,” said Marty.

“My mascara will run.” Again, that smile. “Is that really the first image you want of your father?”

She wiped tears from her cheeks for the second time in an hour. Denny (she couldn't yet think of him as Sweets) and Marty (Dark Chocolate, she would learn, in his performing days, and she saw how it must have been, the double and triple entendres between them, creme-filled), each offered her a hankie. She waved them off, asked for a bathroom; Marty directed her to a small room in back. When she returned, puffy and red-eyed, the shop was hopping. Three young men with short, tipped hair, pointed into the display case behind which Marty crouched. Jack and Lizzie stood near the door with Denny.

“Here she comes.” Sweets smiled at her. “My beautiful daughter.”

“You've met?”

“They charged in, sabers drawn, when you disappeared in back.”

From the counter, boyish laughter burst from the shoppers.

“I assured them,” Denny grinned, “you were safe.”

Jack touched her hand. “You look a lot alike. Especially the eyes.”

“Why, thank you.” Sweets half-tossed, half-nodded his head, a gesture she could only think of as coquettish. “And this gorgeous creature, my granddaughter?” He reached for both of Lizzie's hands; to Genna's astonishment, she extended them. “Looks so much like dear Doris, gave me the absolute chills when she walked in.”

Sweets gazed at Lizzie until she looked away. The three young men passed, babbling. When the door closed, Denny, who still grasped Lizzie's hands, asked, “Do you know what I do when I get such chills?”

Lizzie shook her head.

“Chocolate, my dear. I eat chocolate.”

Later, Jack and Lizzie strolled down Castro. Genna waited for Simon. Sweets was sixty-six, Marty just a few years older than Genna herself. In between customers, they caught her up on their twenty-year romance. Marty declared being with Sweets had saved his life.