Chapter 23
Sam
Dad and Gran are at the kitchen table. Dad looks tired; Gran looks put out. They’ve got drinks; Dad’s holding a beer, and Gran’s got something in a glass—it smells like vermouth. She’s got the soundtrack for Guys and Dolls playing; it’s probably driving Dad out of his mind.
“There you are, Sammy,” Gran says. She’s taking off her big hoop earrings, and she sounds like she does right before she starts doing her Liza Minelli impressions. Now I notice the lipstick on the glass. “We didn’t know where you were.”
I’m looking at Dad, and he’s looking at me. The same dark hair. The same build, more or less. He’s got lines around his eyes now, and he’s got some gray, and because he’s sitting, and because he’s all the way across the room in the kitchen, it’s like he’s much, much smaller than I remember.
“I told your dad you were on a date,” Gran says and then she cackles and helps herself to more of her drink. “I was supposed to go on a date, and then the Caddy crapped out.”
“Alternator,” Dad says.
“And Eugene wouldn’t even pick me up!” Gran’s voice gets shrill at the end. “How’s that for a gentleman?”
“I’ll get a new one tomorrow,” Dad says. “Put it in.”
And now’s where I’m supposed to say that I’ll help him, and then I have a beer too, and we’ll sit around for a while until Dad decides to drive home, and Gran puts her sorrows to bed because she’s going to find Mr. Right tomorrow, and the world keeps spinning like it always has.
I bounce my keys once in my hand. The keys make one tiny clink.
It’s been quiet too long.
Dad’s staring at me. Gran’s got the glass halfway to her mouth, both of her earrings in her other hand.
“I’m bi,” I say.
Nobody says anything.
“Bisexual,” I say in case they don’t understand. “I’ve been going out with a guy. Was, I guess. It’s over now.” They’re still looking at me, so I say, “I thought you should know.”
Guys and Dolls is playing so loud I can’t hear myself think.
But when Dad pushes back his chair, I can hear the legs scrape on the floor. He turns, and he walks out of the house through the garage. He leaves the door open behind him.
Gran says, “Oh, Sam.”
The night’s coming in through the garage, so I walk over to close the door.
The automatic light in the garage door opener is on, brownish-yellow and too weak to show much more than the garage itself.
No Dad. I think maybe if I listen I’ll hear his steps, but I don’t.
I press the button, and the garage door rattles down, and I head back into the house. I shut the door behind me and lock it.
Gran’s sitting now, the earrings on the table in front of her, and her drink is empty.
“I’m going to bed now,” I say.
She nods.
I wait, but she doesn’t say anything, so I say, “Goodnight.”
But when I get to my room, I don’t undress. I take off my shoes and lie on my bed. There’s enough light coming in through the cracks that I can see the popcorn ceiling overhead. It’s not hard to get rid of it. You scrape it off and paint. You can do it in a weekend.
That’s the way the world works, I tell myself. People leave. They do it all the time. And you knew before you opened your mouth how it was going to go.
And I guess that’s true. I guess I did.
I’m still lying there, later, when I hear a tap at the door, and Gran says, “Sammy?”
I don’t say anything because maybe she’ll think I’m asleep.
Another tap comes. “Sammy? Can I come in?”
And because she’s Gran, she doesn’t even wait for an answer.
The doorknob turns, and she steps into the room.
In the dark, I can smell the vermouth, and a hint of her Princess Diana perfume, and it’s probably my imagination, but I think I can smell motor oil, too, and the cold concrete of the garage.
She comes across the room, her steps unsteady in the dark, and she sounds like a tent in a high wind—all sorts of billowing and rustling, probably because she’s got sleeves like a magician.
The mattress dips when she sits next to me.
“He needs some time,” Gran says.
I nod, but I guess it doesn’t mean anything when you’re lying down in the dark.
“I love you,” Gran says. “You are my sweet, wonderful boy, and I’m so proud of you. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. So, if you found someone who makes you happy, that’s all that matters.”
I finally manage to say, “Thanks.”
“Gray’s very handsome,” she says. “And he’s got a great butt.”
“Gran!”
“What? We can talk like this now.”
“I don’t want to talk like this.”
“He’s very charming, too.”
“Great. You can date him.”
Gran laughs a little, and she finds my hand in the dark and squeezes. “What happened, my love?”
It’s too much, so I say, “It’s complicated. I guess we want different things. Wanted different things.”
She doesn’t say anything for a while. “He seemed like he really liked you.”
There’s nothing to say to that.
“Maybe you need to talk to him,” Gran says. “See if you can work it out.”
“There’s nothing to work out.”
“Well, maybe. And maybe not. But you won’t know unless you talk to him.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Samuel Yarmark,” she says like she’s thinking about getting a switch.
“I do. And I don’t need you mucking around in my business, thanks very much. Just because I’m bisexual doesn’t mean you get to poke your nose in.”
I don’t even know what that means, but it pops out of me, and there’s this shocked, silent second, and then Gran starts to laugh for real. I don’t laugh, but I do catch myself smiling, probably because I feel like I’m going crazy.
“I’m fine, Gran,” I say when she stops laughing. “It’ll be okay.”
She makes a noise that could mean anything. And then she says, “I don’t want you to end up like your dad.”
“Yeah, well, that’s how everybody ends up, Gran. Sorry to break it to you. Everybody ends up alone. You, Dad, me. That’s how it is.”
Gran’s quiet for so long that I think maybe I hurt her feelings, or maybe she’s angry, or I don’t know what. But when she finally does say something, she sounds tired. Or resigned. “Your dad is alone, Sam, because he wants to be. Because it’s easier for him. And safer.”
“He’s alone because Mom walked out on him because she couldn’t hack it,” I say.
“He’s alone because that’s what people do when you trust them.
When you let them into your life and love them.
They hurt you, and then they’re gone. Hell, Gran, you ought to know; you’ve only been divorced a million times. ”
I hate that I said it as soon as it’s out of my mouth, but Gran laughs again. Quieter now. Her hand is tight around mine like one of us might drift off if she lets go.
“Maybe,” she says. “I guess you’re right, Sammy, since you’re so smart.
But I’ll tell you one thing: being safe isn’t better than being sorry.
You’ve got to take risks in life. Otherwise you’re not living at all, not really.
” She stands, and the mattress creaks, but she’s still holding on to my hand.
She gives me a weird little shake, like she’s saying goodbye, or like she wants to jostle me out of bed.
Her voice is different when she speaks again.
“And I’ll tell you something else, too. Your mother didn’t leave, Sammy. Your dad did.”