Chapter 21 – Luca #2
Miss M shushes me. ‘In his grief, the lord of Hidden House had the copse razed to the ground, threw all the apples in the sea, leaving only a single tree standing to remember his son by. The farmer’s daughter visited the lonely apple tree every night until the day she died, and when she did, she took her last breath right beside it.
By the morning, her body had disappeared and a second tree grew in its place.
To this day, on pitch-black new-moon nights, people say that they see thousands and thousands of apples floating in the bay by the square. ’
Miss M folds her hands, as if the story is finished. But that can’t possibly be it.
‘And then?’ I ask.
‘And then what?’ she says.
‘At which point did someone chop those last two trees down and plonk the noticeboard there instead?
‘You’re not understanding the point—’
‘That’s a horrible, awful story. Who came up with it anyway? I’m no book nerd, but I know a plot hole when I see one, and this story is the Swiss cheese of plot holes. It makes no sense.’
Miss M tuts in disapproval, then sniffs the air. ‘Do you smell that? I think someone’s eating pizza.’
‘Thanks, Miss M,’ I say and place a kiss on her papery cheek, grateful for the distraction she offered. Grateful to have her in my life.
‘Silly boy! Think about what I just told you. You might learn something!’ she shouts as I dash out the door.
The smell of olive oil on warm bread fills the staircase, and I almost fall down the steps in my rush to get back to our flat.
‘How’s Miss M?’ Dad asks when I enter the lounge.
‘She told me to ask Simo for his hand in marriage unless I want to turn into an apple tree.’ Dad nods, like he expected nothing less. ‘Um, I know we eat a lot, but this –’ I wave to the tower of boxes on the coffee table – ‘will feed us for a week.’
‘Tell that to Daniel. I asked for two margheritas, and I got pear and Gorgonzola, honey and chilli, Parmesan and rucola, a load of garlic bread, a bowl of pumpkin ravioli and half a tray of tiramisu, plus salad and a ton of olives.’
My eyes dart from him to the food and back again. ‘If I can just throw this out there . . .’
‘Don’t,’ Dad warns.
‘. . . I’d say Daniel likes you.’
We’ve not exchanged banter like this in a minute, but Dad’s lips twitch in a way that shows me he’s OK.
‘He just feels guilty for drinking all my coffee.’
‘Or he likes you.’
‘Eat and be quiet, child.’ He holds up a fork and a bowl of ravioli, and because I’m happy to be bribed with pasta, I do as I’m told.
Two hours later, Cate Blanchett’s performance as Carol, a mother who falls for a younger woman but is trapped in a straight marriage, has me crying into my dessert. Dad keeps dabbing his eyes with his sleeve.
‘Carol’s right, you know,’ he says with a croaky voice.
‘Huh?’ I say, and wipe my nose with a tissue.
‘What she says about being a parent. How she can’t be a good mum if she lives against her own nature.’
‘Dad, I literally just stopped crying.’
‘No, listen.’ He turns to me, his face serious.
‘When you were born, I didn’t just come out for myself.
I came out for you. For my son, who should never be anyone but himself.
How could I be a good example to you if I was scared of myself?
As a teenager, I’d felt so much shame. My parents made it clear that a gay son wasn’t going to be tolerated beneath their roof.
They might have come a long way, but I’m having a hard time letting go of years of fear and mistrust. As you might have noticed.
That’s why, when I knew I was going to be a dad, I made a promise that you wouldn’t have to feel shame for anything ever. And in that way, you freed me.’
‘Dad,’ I say, but that’s all I get out before I have to reach for another tissue. I can see that he’s struggling from the way he takes several long breaths before he continues.
‘Poppy and I had a deal. Once you were born, we’d stop pretending.
We weren’t meant to be a couple, and we didn’t want that to come between us being friends.
We were so much better as friends. I didn’t expect it, but I loved being a dad.
I loved my little family of three, and I’d never been happier.
For the first time I didn’t pretend to be someone else.
I had Poppy and I had you. That’s all I needed. ’
He reaches out and wipes my cheek with his thumb.
For a few seconds, he keeps it there, before his expression clouds over.
‘Leave it to my parents to destroy my little utopia. But it’s not their fault, is it?
Not entirely. I thought I’d changed since leaving them behind, but a minute in their presence and I fall into old habits.
I don’t like who I become around them. And once again, it was you who reminded me that I can’t give up on myself, because that would mean giving up on you.
And in this life, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me. ’
He lifts an arm, and I don’t hesitate. I snuggle close, and it’s the best feeling in the world. He places his chin on my head and holds me until I run out of tears.
‘Your mum also gave me a good talking to. Called me an anger muppet.’
‘She never lectures me, you know.’
‘That’s because some of us are maybe more mature than others,’ he mumbles into my hair. ‘Hey, want to see something cool?’
‘Yeah?’
I groan when he breaks the embrace and disappears into his room. He returns with an envelope in his hands.
‘It was meant to be a Christmas gift, but I think now is a good time.’
He hands it over. Clueless as what to expect, I prise it open.
Out comes a single glossy sheet of paper.
In the photograph, Dad looks back at me, in his usual white tee, leaning against the coffee counter in the shop.
Despite the directness of his gaze into the camera, I sense his shyness.
It’s a great picture, one that captures his introverted but steady nature. But why would he give it to me?
‘I let Jacob take my portrait,’ he explains. ‘For his series. He developed it and gave me a copy, and said I could show you. The exhibition will go up in the spring. I was thinking of inviting your grandparents.’
I’m a bit of a wreck after that revelation. I almost burst into tears again, but I don’t want to get the portrait wet and I manage to pull myself together. We’ve had a rocky few weeks, Dad and I, but he always shows up for me.
‘I kind of feel like I should throw you a coming-out party,’ I say with sniff.
‘If you do that –’ Dad plants a kiss on my head – ‘I will disown you.’
When I unlock the door to the cafe at 11 a.m., Jacob shuffles in, his face hidden by a scarf. He peels himself out of a coat and reveals a camera bag slung around his torso. Dad’s portrait is done, but today it’s my turn.
‘Let’s get you warmed up,’ I tell a shivering Jacob and lead him to the kitchen. ‘You might want to put your camera away, because this will get messy.’
As he sets it on a high shelf, his knitted jumper rides up and reveals a slice of milk-white skin. I avert my gaze and quickly pull ingredients from the cupboards.
‘What are we making?’ he asks. He should become an audiobook narrator, with a voice so deep.
‘Since you’ve never experienced the joy of tasting a jammy dodger, we’ll start there and see where we get.’
When I found out that Jacob’s never made Christmas cookies, I saw it as my duty to fix the gaping hole in his life experience.
For the next couple of hours, we mix, whisk and knead; we cut stars and circles and fill the cafe with the scent of cinnamon, hot jam and icing sugar.
By the time Jacob pulls the first batch from the oven, his cheeks are flushed with warmth.
Sunlight filters through the window, making the sweat on Jacob’s temples glisten. Particles of flour hang in the air.
‘Wait, this is perfect,’ Jacob says, and steps out of the kitchen to set up the camera. I stiffen, suddenly unsure what to do with myself.
‘Is this what you always do on Christmas morning?’ he asks, fiddling with the settings.
‘Yeah, it’s a tradition that started with my mum, and she made us keep it even after she left.
She’d call, and we’d bake, together but on different continents.
Only this year she’s busy hatching kiwi chicks.
’ I try to keep the resentment out of my voice.
I’m proud of her, I really am, but when I have to give up the few precious moments we get together because her work is more important, I can’t help my feelings.
‘What about you? Do you have any holiday traditions?’ I ask, to distract myself.
Jacob shakes his head. ‘We’re not that kind of family.
Dad believes Christmas is a capitalist stunt, Mum’s side of the family is Jewish, but secular.
Besides, they’re getting a divorce.’ I don’t know if I should pry, but Jacob is already moving on.
‘My ex’s family always threw a huge Christmas party, but I was never invited.
He was scared of their reaction if they found out he was gay. ’
I want to ask more about this ex, want to know what it’s like having a boyfriend. But Jacob’s face is hidden behind the camera, and I get the feeling it’s not his favourite subject.
‘Remind me to take you to Fountainbridge next December. It’s this small town only a short drive from here, with a month-long Christmas festival. It’s bonkers but fun.’
‘Bonkers,’ Jacob repeats, and rises to his full height, a grin tugging at his dimples. ‘I’d like that. Anyway, I think we have the picture.’
‘Really?’
‘It took a minute to make you forget about the camera, but we got there.’
‘You’re good at this. Getting people talking.’
He shrugs. ‘Listening is easy. It’s the talking part I struggle with.’
‘Talking is a lot easier when you get to clean off cookie icing.’
He accepts a whisk covered in sugary cinnamon foam and hums approvingly, a sound from deep in his throat. I start washing up plates so I don’t have to watch him lick it.
‘My dad’s divorcing my mum, because he’s convinced that she cheated on him,’ Jacob says after a couple minutes of comfortable silence. ‘So to punish him, she took me and moved us back to her home town. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Ouch,’ I say, and wonder if she did cheat, but knowing that I’m too nosey for my own good, I stay quiet.
Maybe Jacob can tell, because he shrugs and says, ‘He’s right, she was having an affair. But he wasn’t faithful either. They’re both hypocrites.’
‘They shouldn’t be dragging you into this. You’re their child, not a toy.’ His mother took him away from his friends and family to hurt her husband, but he’s the one paying the price. At least Dad did it to protect me, not because he wanted revenge.
‘Thanks. It’s good to be reminded.’ A strand of hair falls into his eyes. When he blows it away, I think of the way Simo calls him Curtains. I don’t know what it is between them, but I need to find a way to make them get along.
Dad appears behind Jacob and claps his hands. ‘Boys, it’s almost time to open the cafe and, frankly, the place is a mess.’
‘Oh, sorry. We’ll clear up and then I’ll get out of your way,’ Jacob says, flustered.
‘Ignore him – he’s just mad that he didn’t get to lick the bowls clean,’ I say. ‘And you should stay. We don’t even need the kitchen. People bring their own drinks and food to share. Another tradition, a little Christmas party of sorts. Stay, please?’
Jacob looks unsure, but when Dad stuffs a cookie in his own mouth, rolls his eyes in pleasure and says, ‘Yesh, pleash shtay,’ he nods, a smile spreading across his face.