Michael Tolliver Lives (9 page)

“To play with them,” I said. “They were…you know…more docile when they were stunned.”

“Well, I guess so.” My beloved’s jaw was slack with horror. He looked like he was on the verge of reporting me to PETA.

“We didn’t hit them that hard,” I told him, “and we always put them back.”

That did nothing to fix his expression.

“It wasn’t
my
idea,” I said.

They both laughed, but it was the truth.
Nothing
had been my idea back then. Irwin had been the architect of every folly, the guy who taught me how guys become guys and beat the shit out of me in the process. The tide didn’t begin to turn until I was admitted to the university that had rejected Irwin two years earlier. Though he later enrolled in a business college in Tallahassee, he was expelled after a string of drunken misdemeanors, causing a major parental hissy fit at home. When, at twenty-six, I finally told my folks I was gay, Irwin received the news so unhysterically that it took me a while to realize that what he felt, more than anything, was relief. To him, my coming-out meant he was no longer the disgrace of the family; he could go about breeding kids and selling houses, being the man again.

That was decades ago, of course, and Irwin, like George W. Bush, has long since proven that even serious fuckups can make a go of it. But sitting there in that bland suburban hacienda, I tallied the score of our ancient rivalry and realized that I envied nothing about my brother’s life. Not the boat or the four thousand plus square feet or the wife or the grandkid, either—none of the things I once worried I might be missing if I committed fully to a life of homosexuality. That life hasn’t been perfect, but it has been
my
life, tailored to my dreams and safely beyond the reach of God’s terrible swift sword.

My brother can’t say that. Never could.

Irwin’s wife, Lenore, was at Children’s Bible Study, he told us, doing her puppet ministry with one of the grandkids. He expected her back by four o’clock, at which point we could discuss where to go for dinner. There were several malls nearby, offering a plenitude of choices, including an Outback whose steaks, Irwin assured me, were far superior to the Outback steaks on the West Coast. Except, of course, Irwin said
Left
Coast, since that’s been his favorite zinger ever since he learned it on
Rush Limbaugh
.

“So y’all had a good flight?” Irwin was already running out of conversation, but I liked the sound of that second-person plural, since
y’all,
in its way, implies a couple, and Irwin, of course, knew that I knew that. It sort of sanctified our union. Sort of.

“It was okay,” Ben answered. “Lousy legroom, but…you just have to deal.”

“Oh, man, you got that right! I fly business or first these days, but I know what you mean.” He banged his palm rhythmically against the leather of that giant catcher’s mitt as he scrambled for something to say. “So…where are y’all staying?”

“Just a little B&B,” I replied. “It’s basic, but it’s all we need.”

It was, to be more specific, a little gay B&B we’d found in the
Spartacus Guide
. We’d been attracted to the name—Inn Among the Flowers—but the flowers had proven to be everywhere but in the garden. The owners, a pair of retired Italian queens from Queens, had lovingly floralized every surface: from the sheets to the upholstery to the toilet paper.

“You shoulda checked with me,” said Irwin. “I coulda got you a discount at the Ramada. Many Mansions meets there every Monday.”

I translated for Ben. “That’s his Christian realtors group.”

“Ah.”

I couldn’t resist the urge to elaborate. “The name comes from the Bible. You know…‘In my father’s house are many mansions.’”

Ben nodded. “Right.”

My brother chuckled. “Some people think it’s because we
sell
mansions. We do sell a few…some of us…but that’s not what it means.”

Ben smiled back. “It means the different races, right?”

“Well, not so much
races
as…it just means rooms, really…that there’s plenty of room for everybody in God’s house.”

“And you wouldn’t believe the low low down payment,” I said.

Ben shot me a chastising look.

“It’s okay,” Irwin told Ben. “He’s always been a smart-mouth.”

Lenore arrived home on schedule, a whirling dervish in a pink tracksuit and careful hair. Well into her fifties, she had remained girlish and petite, a feat made all the more dramatic by the presence of her grandson, a delicate doe-eyed seven-year-old named Sumter who had volunteered to help with her burgeoning puppet ministry. As I watched from the porch, they emerged from Lenore’s Chevy Tahoe and began pulling plastic poles from the rear door like a team of well-seasoned roustabouts. It was curiously touching.

I hollered at her. “Need a hand with that?”

She looked up with a start. “Oh, Mikey, you’re here! I wondered whose pretty car that was. Come gimme a hug, but don’t look, I’m a mess. Shoot, I was gonna change for you. I hate lookin’ this way. Sumter, you remember your Great-Uncle Michael.”

It was more of a command than a question, so the boy issued a dutiful “Yes, ma’am,” but there’s no way he could have remembered. I hadn’t seen him in at least four years, when his mother (my niece Kimberly, divorced last year from her meth-addicted husband) spent the night with her family at Fisherman’s Wharf on their way to a Pleasant Hawaiian Holiday. Sumter shook my hand with somber courtesy and began to tug folds of blue fabric from the back of the SUV.

My sister-in-law embraced me fragrantly. “You look so
good,
Mikey!”

“Thanks, Lenore. You too.”

“I mean, you really do. You’ve got some nice ruddy color in your cheeks.”

Yep, some of those meds have lovely side effects.

“Where’s Ben?” Lenore asked, looking around.

“Inside,” I said, pleased that she’d remembered his name. “With Irwin.”

“Oh, no. Gettin’ an ear fulla boat, I bet.”

I laughed. “I think that’s over with now.”

Sumter was almost staggering under the weight of that bunched blue curtain. “Just leave that, honey,” his grandmother told him. “We’ll get it later.”

“Is that your puppet theater?” I asked the boy.

“Yes sir,” he replied. “It fits on the these here poles.” I’d forgotten about that “sir” business. I had to do that myself when I was Sumter’s age.

“So it works like a tent,” I said. “That’s pretty cool.” (I don’t know why I insist on saying “cool” around the young; it only makes me feel older.)

Sumter crawled into the vehicle and laid his hand reverently on a cardboard box. “This is where we keep the puppets.” He pulled out a yarn-haired Muppet-style creature and held it up for my scrutiny. “These sticks here make the arms move, see?”

Lenore gave me a grown-up-to-grown-up look. “He’s
real
into this.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” I said, smiling, taking the puppet in hand. It was a Bert or possibly Ernie look-alike with the letters GAP imprinted on his sweatshirt. I didn’t get it. “Is the Gap sponsoring you or something?”

“Oh, no.” She chuckled at my ignorance. “That stands for God Answers Prayers.”

“Oh…okay…”

“All the puppets have little sayings on their clothes. It’s the best way to teach kids the Bible. Keeps ’em interested, you know.”

Sumter had removed another puppet for my inspection, a female in flowing Middle Eastern garb. “This one here’s a Foolish Virgin.”

“So I see,” I said.

Lenore took my arm. “You know that story, don’t you? The Five Foolish Virgins?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I did once but—”

Sumter piped up. “Their oil ran out. They weren’t ready for the Bridegroom.”

Their oil ran out?

“That’s right, Sumter. They weren’t prepared, so they didn’t have enough oil to light their lamps.” She turned back to me. “It’s a parable about readiness. Preparing our souls for the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“Well…you can never have enough oil for that.”

I made that joke purely for myself, knowing it would breeze past Lenore. Ben and I had already agreed not to confront the biologicals about the war in Iraq unless they brought it up first. My dying mother was waiting to meet my true love at a Christian old folks’ home in Orlo-fucking-vista; there wasn’t
time
for all-out holy warfare.

Sumter slid out of the SUV and posed by its side. “I wanna be the Foolish Virgin next time.”

“Well, you can’t,” his grandmother said, slamming the tailgate.

“Why not?”

“Because…you’re perfect as the Bridegroom. And boys don’t get to be Foolish Virgins. That’s just plain silly, honey. I’ve told you that before. Don’t give Nor-Nor a hard time about this.” She turned, gathering the plastic poles in her arms as she widened her eyes at me. “And not a peep out of you, mister.”

“I wasn’t even—”

“I know it’s a silly name, but one of the kids picked it, and…I can’t be Granny yet. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

I gave her a smile and a salute. “As you wish…Nor-Nor.”

Lenore heaved a sigh. “Sounds like a creature from
Star Wars,
doesn’t it? That’s what Irwin said.” She readjusted the poles and began striding toward the house. “Did he offer y’all somethin’ to eat? No, of course not. What am I talkin’ about? You look wonderful, Mikey. You really do. Mama Tolliver’s gonna be so happy to see you.”

She charged ahead of me into the cluster mansion—hell-bent for the first sight of Ben, I guess—leaving me and Sumter to fend for ourselves. The boy looked up at me pleasantly, blinking once or twice, then rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

“Wanna see the rest of my puppets?” he asked.

9

Uppity

W
ith Lenore in the house the menfolk relaxed a little. Ben and I welcomed the enlivening effects of a woman—even this one—and Irwin seemed much more at ease with the proof of his normality fluttering nearby. Sumter, meanwhile, had taken an instant shine to my husband, heaping puppets at his feet like offerings to a fair-haired god.

“This one here’s a lion who’s scared all the time,” the kid announced. “And this one’s a witch, even though her dress is way too pretty for a witch, if you ask me.”

“Well, she’s the good witch,” Ben explained. “That green one over there is the wicked one.”

“He’s never seen the movie,” Lenore said, smiling at Ben. “A neighbor brought those over for him.”

“Well, we’ll have to fix
that,
” said Ben. “Do you watch DVDs, Sumter?”

“Sometimes,” said the boy. “I watched
The Princess Diaries
and
Cheaper by the Dozen
and…
The Passion of the Christ
.”

“We watched that with him, of course,” Lenore said
sotto voce
. “It’s real inspirational, but it takes…you know, a grown-up to explain things.”

I asked her, somewhat wickedly, if she understood Aramaic.

“Oh, no. I meant…the suffering part.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “It’s no worse than…say…
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
.”

Lenore missed this impertinence—or chose to ignore it—but Irwin shot me a scowl from the depths of the catcher’s mitt.

Don’t get righteous with me,
I thought
. You’re the one showing S&M snuff movies to a seven-year-old.

“And this one’s my favorite,” Sumter was telling Ben, ignoring the old folks altogether. “Her name is Ariel. I can make her tail wiggle, see? I’ve got this cool underwater backdrop that I made from Mama’s shower curtain, only that’s back at—”

“Listen, sport,” Irwin interjected, “the grown-ups are fixin’ to talk, so why don’t you take your toys up to Nor-Nor’s room? Your mama’ll be here soon—”

“They’re not toys,” said Sumter. “They’re puppets.”

Irwin, it seemed to me, was already in a state over his grandson’s passionate theatricality and in no mood to split hairs. “Take them upstairs, Sumter. Right this minute, you hear? Or Granddaddy won’t take you to the Dolphins game next week.”

Sumter, so help me, rolled his eyes. “I’m so scared.”

Seeing her husband’s color beginning to rise, Lenore tactfully interceded. “Sumter, honey, what did I tell you about sassing your granddaddy?”

Solemnly, and with dramatic deliberation, the boy filled his arms with puppets and left the room without another word.

“He’s such a funny little fella,” Lenore said.

“He needs a man in his life,” said Irwin. “Somebody to smack some sense into him. He’s got way too smart a mouth on him.”

“Oh, now…”

“And I don’t mean one of those wimps that Kimberly’s been datin’ on Match.com. That boy could use a nice long summer camp with a drill sergeant.”

“Oh, Irwin, for heaven sakes.” Lenore sighed at her husband, then gave me a crooked little smile. “He’s kidding.”

“The heck I am,” said my brother.

“I envy him those puppets,” I offered, changing the subject. “They’re so much better than they used to be. I had to make my own out of old socks and papier-mâché. Remember, Irwin? I did
Jack and the Beanstalk,
and I made you be the giant.”

Lenore gaped in delight. “I never knew you liked puppets when you were little!”

I nodded. “I made stages out of cardboard boxes from the Piggly Wiggly.”

“Well, goodness,” said Lenore. “I guess it runs in the family.”

“I guess it does,” I agreed.

What exactly
it
was remained discreetly ambiguous, but the air was electric with subtext. I didn’t dare look at Benjamin. Or Irwin, for that matter.

I knew what they were thinking, though. Both of them.

Sumter’s mother—my niece Kimberly, who works for Florida Citrus Mutual over in Lakeland—came to fetch the child a few minutes later. She stayed to make chitchat and give Ben a brief, voracious once-over, then left the four of us to our various discomforts and a tinfoil tray of deviled eggs Lenore had picked up from the deli at Harris Teeter.