Blue （1979） #2
“…Chocolate Belgian waffles with ricotta, orange marmalade topped with shaved chocolate and orange zest. The best man takes one look at it on the table and screams at the groom, ‘How could you share our special breakfast with her?’ He bursts into tears, and the groom says, “I didn’t know she was ordering it!’ By now, everyone knows what is amiss.
I hear there’s going to be an annulment coming.
I heard this morning that the groom and best man are in Aruba on what was supposed to be the groom’s honeymoon.
I guess boyfriend figures if she tried to steal his man, he can steal her honeymoon. ”
Perils, cheerfully ignoring our stunned silence, chirped, “Anyway, loves, I must dash. I’ll see you at the dinner party on Saturday. I’m bringing the booze.”
MJ shifted her handbag on her shoulder and waved, causing a renewed clatter. Perils cocked her head, and mumbled again, “What is that sound?”
Saturday, April 28, 1979, University City—“Wow your apartment is so orderly and clean,” Sue P commented when they arrived this afternoon. “Is it always like this?”
“Always,” MJ put in.
“My dad,” I said, “taught me to keep things clean.”
“I still find it odd that your father essentially taught you how to keep house,” MJ said.
“Rather than my mother, you mean?”
“Well, that he taught you at all. If you were to learn those things, I would have thought your mother would have been the one.”
“I told you, my father learned all that at the children’s home.
” The truth was my mother was more likely to paint a fresco on the dining room ceiling than scrub a toilet.
I’ve always thought that if we’d stayed in Springfield, if she had gone to art school like she wanted, she would have eventually had a career as an artist.
“Aren’t you being a bit sexist here, MJ?” Sue P asked, effectively ending the conversation. We set to work preparing for our dinner party.
Sue P, MJ, and I started to cook together in our tiny galley kitchen.
We made sausage and peppers—with sausage from the terminal market downtown that reminded Jackson and I of the sausage the farmers in Locust Hollow made and sold, and burgers and home fries.
As we cooked, Jackson set out the plates and forks and knives.
“I hope we have enough,” MJ fretted.
Ever practical, Sue P said, “Next time, let’s just have folks bring their own plates and utensils.”
We ended up with ten or twelve people. People sat on what furniture we had and on the floor with plates in their laps. Someone brought a jug of Boone’s Farm apple wine; Perils sneered at it but gamely had a glass with dinner.
We were having dessert when Faiz, tipsy, started to cry.
This was so far from his usual bubbly personality everyone was immediately alarmed.
Everyone loves Faiz. He is sweet. With eccentric Middle Eastern looks and a mass of curly black hair, he is always smiling.
He and Sue P dote on each other; they go everywhere together, causing endless speculation about whether they are a couple: are they, or aren’t they?
They often contradict each other on this point.
“Faiz!”
“Faiz, what’s wrong?”
“I may have breast cancer.”
“What?”
“You do not have breast cancer,” Sue P objected. Sue P is the most maternal of our friends, but she has no patience with drama that she sees as nonsense.
“You don’t know that. I have a tumor in my breast—”
“Chest,” Sue P corrected.
Faiz glared at her through his tears. “I’m having surgery on Monday.”
“Oh, Faiz…”
“Do you want one of us to go with you?”
“No. Sue P is going with me.”
Sue P. Evidently there had been two Sues at some point, so the first initial of Sue P’s last name had been added to her first name to distinguish between the two. No one could remember a second Sue, though. Nonetheless, the moniker persisted.
The fuss and attention soothed Faiz, and he was soon laughing again. We moved to the courtyard for cookies and milk, which Perils insisted would absorb the alcohol we had consumed and prevent hangovers.
Monday, April 30, 1979, University City—Today was a quintessential spring morning, warm and bright, not a cloud in the sky.
Still high on the success of our first dinner party, I fairly skipped along after my first class on my way to Dodo for a snack and coffee.
I saw Sue P and Faiz leaving the university hospital.
When they reached my side of the street, I asked, “So how did it go?”
“Fine,” Faiz chirped. “They removed the tumor. They’re pretty sure it was benign.”
“It was just a fatty tumor,” Sue P said.
“They were worried about scarring,” Faiz said. “So they had a plastic surgeon suture the incision.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Wanna see?”
Before I could stop him, he pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Shit,” he said. “That hurt.”
“The doctor told you to avoid lifting your arm over your head for a few days.”
“Oh, right. See?” he said stretching towards me. I peered at his chest just above his nipple, where there was a small Band-Aid.
I looked at Sue P, who just rolled her eyes.
“Well, I’m so glad everything turned out OK. Listen, I have to grab something to eat then head to my next class—and you probably need to go lay down or something to recover.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll talk later. Let everyone know I pulled through.”
“Will do,” I called, hiding my smile as Sue P led him towards his dorm.
Saturday, September 22, 1979, University City—I heard Jackson open our apartment’s door then exclaim, “You, again?”
“Oh, hush,” I heard MJ say. “You’ve barely seen me. I was gone all summer. Besides, you know I’m here because I adore you both. And I know you love me, Jackson. Also, I hate messiness—Sue P is a slob—and your place is always so clean and orderly, even though you’re both guys—”
“Whoa, girlfriend,” Jackson said in that queeny voice he sometimes adopts—his ability to code switch, that is change his presentation from uber masculine to effeminate gay at will, still startles me every time he does it.
“You need to check your assumptions about gender. Also, I am a preacher’s kid, and cleanliness is next to godliness. ”
Jackson was, I knew, serious. Despite working as a plumber, I’ve never seen Jackson dirty.
Each morning, he leaves our apartment dressed in neat khakis and a carefully pressed button-down shirt.
He returns home dressed as he left. On Fridays, he comes home with a brown paper bag under his arm, which contains his soiled work clothes.
Even after a long day that includes overtime, he returns to me smelling of soap and aftershave.
That is one of the things I love about him—that he always chooses to show me the best version of himself.
“Pardon my mistake, good sir,” MJ said bowing. “Oren,” she shouted when she saw me standing in the hall watching them, “Thank God you’re here. Please save me from this psychopath you’re in love with.”
I laughed, helplessly charmed by their manic antics in opposition to each other.
Saturday, October 20, 1979, University City—I was writing a paper for my comparative literature class.
Tomorrow, I will go over to MJ’s room and type it on her fancy electric typewriter.
I generally type her papers for her as well, as she is a terrible typist—think seven or eight words a minute, with typos.
As MJ moons over my proficiency, in my head, I thank Mrs. Campbell, my typing teacher, who ignored the consternation of all the other teachers and the school’s principal over my decision to take typing rather than shop and welcomed me into her distaff den.
On the radio, Prince was insisting he wanted to be our brother, and our mother and our sister, too. Jackson came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. “This song is for us.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re everything to each other. And all we have.”
I twisted in my chair to look at him. “Does that make you sad?” I asked.
“No.” He giggled and whispered in my ear, “I want to be your lover, too.”
“You are my lover, silly boy.” I pulled him onto my lap.
He made himself comfortable and looked into my eyes. He looks at me and I feel like a hero. Yet I know it is he who saved me.
“I love you, Blue Moon,” I said.
“I know,” he answered kissing me. “I love you, too.”
He pulled me to my feet, and we tumbled onto the bed. After, he looked pensive. “What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“I heard from Reverend Jack today.”
“What did he have to say?”
“The usual. He thinks this will get us sent to hell.” He held our entwined fingers in the air. “Do you think it will?”
I rolled onto my stomach. “You know on Judgment Day, when St. Peter stops me at the pearly gates and asks me what I did with my life, I will tell him I spent it loving you.”
“You think that will be enough to get you into heaven?”
I shrugged. “Living with you, loving you in the open, is my heaven. Nothing else matters.” I kissed him, laid my head down on my pillow. He slapped me on my naked ass. “No sleeping. Get up. You have a paper to write.”
“No,” I said, rolling onto my back. “Come here. I can write it in the morning.”