Day Seventeen
“Whose wedding is this again?” Norman asked as he handed the Laredo’s keys to the valet in exchange for a ticket. He then reached into the back, where his Tom Ford suit jacket was neatly hanging.
“Non-Trad’s. But they’re already married, this is just the reception.” Jesse smoothed his trousers with the palms of his hands.
“And Non-Trad is…”
“One of my students.”
Norman straightened Jesse’s tie before putting on his own jacket. “Do you know any of your students’ actual names?”
“Of course I do. Nathan Treadwell. NT. Non-Trad.” Jesse swatted Norman away as he continued to fuss, but this time playfully.
Ever since his return, annoyance and lust had seesawed through them.
They’d had passionate, all-consuming sex twice, which thrilled Norman, who felt starved for human touch, but Jesse was also just as likely to be withdrawn. “I don’t know the name of his wife.”
Norman shook his head. “Well, you look very handsome.”
Jesse did not respond.
“And I look pretty good, too,” Norman prompted.
“Yes, but you always look good,” Jesse replied, as if it didn’t ever need be acknowledged.
Norman was the right size to fit most suits off the rack, whereas Norman knew from experience Jesse never felt more like a wheelbarrow of limbs than he did when they dressed up nice.
Jesse headed up the few stairs into the restaurant, Norman trailing behind him.
The reception was at Le Vallauris, a premier French restaurant in Palm Springs on the grounds of the old Desert Inn, the storied hotel once owned by Marion Davies, perhaps best known as the mistress of William Randolph Hearst; the inn helped put Palm Springs on the map.
In the late 1960s, most of the hotel was demolished to make way for a glitzy shopping mall, and it was a miracle the structure that housed the restaurant survived.
The restaurant itself, once a favorite haunt of Frank Sinatra’s, was now owned by the Soho House, which had put their spin on the menu but left the institution’s character intact.
Cocktail hour was just reaching full swing on the patio, which was anchored by large ficus trees; at night they were decorated with twinkling white lights, making it feel like guests were dining under the stars.
Or among the stars, as it was easy to imagine the entire Rat Pack, or Dinah Shore, or desert socialite Nelda Linsk, or any number of luminaries who graced this patio over the years.
They held hands as they walked out into the courtyard.
“I remember something,” Norman blurted, feeling the warmth of Jesse’s hand.
“From that night?” Jesse asked.
“I think,” Norman said, although he needed time to process. “It’ll come to me.”
Tables were set for formal dining in the courtyard, white linens and their finest china, but were only sparsely populated, as most celebrants milled about.
A bar was set up in the corner and each of them accepted a glass of champagne; Norman held his by the base of his flute.
“Saluti,” he said, cheers in Italian, to which Jesse replied, “A votre santé,” because champagne was French.
A student Jesse called Headphones spotted them first; he was set up near the bar with speakers that were playing pop music in French and waved them over to say hello.
He rivaled Jesse in height. Norman recognized a song by the band Pink Martini.
“They have me DJ’ing this thing even though I don’t understand a word of the lyrics. ”
“Quel dommage,” Jesse said with a laugh.
Headphones brightened. “I know that one! Something cheese.”
“Look at that, I can teach someone to be funny.”
Norman cleared his throat.
“Headphones, Norman. Norman, Headphones. Headphones was one of my students last fall.”
Norman held out his hand and they shook. “Jesse’s husband,” Norman stressed.
This kid Headphones seemed genuinely excited, and shook Norman’s hand with gusto. “None of us would even be here if it weren’t for this guy,” Headphones explained, pointing to Jesse, and Norman turned to his husband, confused.
Jesse’s face grew flush. “Non-Trad confessed that his girlfriend once said she couldn’t imagine marrying someone who wasn’t funny. It was one of the reasons he took my class. But I’d like to point out Nathan was already funny. I just…helped bring it out of him.”
“And now look at them,” Headphones exclaimed.
Non-Trad and his wife were holding court under the largest ficus, posing for photos with guests.
Headphones seemed legitimately happy for them, and Jesse commented that he was proud of the community his class had fostered.
And that he was grateful to Headphones for making him feel less freakishly tall.
“Do you have any Mountain Dew?” The voice came from the bar behind them, followed by some heated words with the bartender. Jesse turned and smirked.
“Let me guess, another student?” Norman asked when he saw the look on Jesse’s face.
Jesse nodded. “Mountain Dew.” When Norman stared, Jesse acquiesced and offered her real name, “Melissa.”
Mountain Dew spun around at the sound of her name. “JESSE?” She dropped her disagreement with the bartender and ran over to hug her former teacher. “You’re not going to believe what they don’t have at the bar.”
“Outrageous,” Jesse said before introducing Norman.
Norman extended a hand. “I suppose you’re the one responsible for the green swill taking up a prime shelf in my fridge.”
“And the student becomes the teacher.” Mountain Dew laughed while taking a bow.
“Now if only I could teach this bartender a lesson or two. Can you believe he told me he could make something akin to ginger ale by mixing Pepsi and Sprite? SPRITE? So now I have to slum it by drinking champagne.” She took a sip and stuck her tongue out. “It’s so dry.”
“Not everything is made to quench thirst,” Jesse commiserated. “But it’s a celebration so we’ll indulge them.”
“They make Hard Mountain Dew, you know.” She said it loudly and for the bartender’s benefit, before excusing herself to ditch her half-full champagne flute on one of the tables. She then disappeared into the crowd.
“Who else am I going to meet tonight?” Norman asked when it was just the two of them. “Shoelaces? Fishsticks? I just want to be prepared.”
“Fishsticks hates these things,” Jesse said, playing along. “If she came it would be a real fluke.” Norman groaned at the pun as Jesse pointed in the happy couple’s direction. “Come on. Let’s go wish them well.”
Non-Trad greeted Jesse with a tight hug and whispered, “I owe it all to you.” Jesse would hear none of it.
This was all Nathan’s doing. Over and over, Norman was introduced and squeezed and elbowed aside in favor of his husband—he couldn’t ever remember Jesse being so popular.
It was disconcerting. Had Jesse actually thrived in his absence?
“What?” Jesse asked at some point when he caught Norman staring.
“Nothing,” Norman said sheepishly. “It’s just, I realize I’ve never actually seen you teach. Apparently you’re quite good.”
“This is better than observing me in the classroom,” Jesse replied. And Norman understood. He was seeing the results of Jesse’s work, the building that came from the blueprints of his teaching.
Norman continued to observe his partner once they were seated for dinner.
As the younger one, Jesse had long been expected to acknowledge the ways in which Norman had influenced his life—something Norman well realized.
Norman had introduced Jesse to so many things.
Friends. Fashion. Queer-coded books by Patricia Highsmith and Langston Hughes.
The absolute culinary perfection of fried fish and chips served in newspaper before that became a thing of the past. But tonight it seemed Jesse was the one in command.
His wit was unmatched, he was sparkling.
Norman had the sense he’d never truly appreciated these qualities.
Youth was finally a check in his favor, early fifties for a man, a certain sweet spot where looks, confidence, and success all commingled.
How could one look at Jesse and ever not be delighted? He leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Jesse said when beet salads were deposited in front of them.
“Not particularly,” Norman protested as he adjusted his chair and several leaves from the ficus tree fell like heavy snowflakes. “I had a nice chat with Charleston Chew.”
“Snickers?” Jesse asked, confused.
“Ah, yes. I knew it was something with nougat.”
“I like the alliteration, though.”
Snickers, whose real name was Connor, was the last to join their table alongside his girlfriend, Mei, whom Jesse quickly dubbed Socks thanks to a colorful pair she was wearing that Snickers had custom-printed with images of their cat’s face, whose name was, ironically, Mounds.
(If he were nuts he’d be Almond Joy, Socks said to the feigned delight of anyone who would listen.) There was a seat for Headphones, too, who was here stag, but he kept jumping up to check on the music.
Someone named Unicorn was MIA, but Jesse explained that was the way with unicorns—they were magical creatures you couldn’t pin down.
Mountain Dew had a glass filled with a liquid the color of nuclear waste.
Could it be? She clocked Norman’s look and confessed, “I had Postmates deliver six twenty-ounce bottles. I hid them in a topiary if you want some.”
“A topiary?” Jesse asked, looking around the patio with delight.
Mountain Dew shrugged. “Ruining the tablescape seemed crass.”
Jesse bowed his head. “It’s impossible I ever worried the lot of you weren’t funny.”
Dinner was filet with a balsamic reduction, onion marmalade, haricots verts, and some sort of mash that might have been parsnips. Norman didn’t realize how hungry he was until food hit the table, nor how much he’d had to drink to quell his nerves.