Chapter Thirty-Nine
LENA - SAN FRANCISCO, CA
My dad and I flew together a week later from LAX to SFO and took a taxi to the Willow House Inn, which was smack in the middle of the Castro.
After checking us in, they gave us keys to our suite, which had two separate bedrooms and a shared bathroom.
We entered the suite, looked at each other, and smiled.
The bright bedroom had a queen-size bed with a willow wood headboard, two large windows, an armoire, a pair of oversized armchairs, and a dresser with sherry, glasses, and chocolates waiting for us.
We set down our luggage and walked into a smaller but equally charming bedroom with a queen bed, a small nightstand, a large willow wood chair, and even more windows.
“I’ll take this room,” my dad said, putting his jacket down on the chair.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. You take the other bedroom so you’re closer to the bathroom to get ready for your conference in the morning.”
“Okay, that makes sense. Thanks.”
We settled in, unpacked our suitcases, freshened up in the bathroom, and then headed out for dinner.
The owners of the inn, a gay couple, recommended a restaurant down the street.
After dinner, we started walking back to the inn, and my dad looked over at a club with music pouring out of its doors and a black-velvet rope entrance.
The bouncer made eye contact with my dad, who nodded and smiled back.
My dad bumped my shoulder, pushing me toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Where? There?” I whipped my head around, pointing to the nightclub, even though I knew what he meant.
“Yeah,” he said, grinning like a little kid. “I want to check it out.”
“I’m too old to go to a club,” I protested. Is he kidding me? I didn’t go to clubs anymore. And even if I did, I wouldn’t go with my father.
“If you’re too old, then I’m ancient.” He laughed. “Come on. It’ll be fun. We can dance.”
He knew how to get me. The ability to kill it on a dance floor was one thing I’d inherited from him. I looked longingly down the street toward our inn. Then I looked back at the club and gave a small shrug. What the hell?
He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the entrance. The bouncer greeted us with a smile and nodded at my dad again. It was like they spoke the same language.
He then turned to me. “ID, please, miss.”
“ID? Miss? Why, thank you,” I said, acting as if his job requirement were flattery.
He examined my license and handed it back to me. “Have fun.”
He winked at my dad, and at that moment, it hit me that this was a gay club. Of course. We were in the Castro.
We walked in, and it took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dark, bluish-tinted lighting.
There were lots of men at the bar, standing around and drinking.
Men of every size, in various forms of dress—and some undress—packed the dance floor, shaking, moving, and gyrating like one gigantic mass.
I was the only woman in the entire place, from what I could see.
That made me feel kind of special in a bizarre way, like I was being granted admission to a private club.
“Come on, let’s go.” Dad grabbed my arm and led me onto the dance floor. “I love this song,” he said, shaking his hips to the beat. It was “Enjoy the Silence,” by Depeche Mode—a throwback to the ’90s. I loved it too.
I was nervous. Even though I loved to be in the spotlight—performing in high school theater and now in the courtroom with a judge or jury and spectators—I felt very much on display.
“Relax,” my dad whispered into my ear and then pulled his face back so he could look at me.
He was smiling, and I realized he didn’t mean it to reprimand me. He was trying to put me at ease. I looked around again and noticed that everyone was dancing, laughing, and very much enjoying themselves. No one seemed to notice me or care that I was the only woman there.
I felt my shoulders relax, and I started swaying to the music. We were moving in rhythm, shaking our hips in time to the beat, showing off our fancy dance moves. We were smiling, clapping our hands, and laughing so hard sometimes that we would throw our heads back.
“Woo! I love this. Beautiful. Dancing with my baby girl.” My dad grabbed me, and we started dancing as a couple, doing the moves of the Latin hustle that he’d taught me when I was a little girl. My body knew exactly what to do even though it hadn’t danced these steps in ages.
The song ended, and we stayed on the dance floor for the next. And the next. And the next. We took a break to get some drinks and then went back out. A man walked over to us, smiling, and whispered something to my dad. The music was too loud for me to hear what he said.
My dad motioned to me. “That’s my daughter.” He smiled proudly.
“Your daughter?” the guy asked, nodding approvingly. “Well, well. That’s cool.” He raised his drink, saluting me.
I waved, laughing.
A few other guys came over, probably friends with the first one.
They were all chatting with the guy who had first approached us, smiling at my dad and me.
Some were even waving and saying things like, “Aww, dad and daughter—that’s so sweet.
Look at them. Damn, they can dance. Oh my God, I love this. How cool.”
My dad was in his element, dancing and enjoying himself.
He looked so happy. And I realized it wasn’t only because he was in a gay club, where he could be himself.
It was also because he was there with me.
We’d never been dancing at a gay club before.
My father was showing me who he was and wanted me to experience it with him.
I realized he was such a risk taker, a fact I hadn’t fully grasped when I was younger. His entire life was a risk. Yet he really didn’t seem to care what others thought of him. Or maybe it was more that he couldn’t care if he was to live the life he chose.
We said goodbye to the guys, who patted us on the back, wishing us well.
As we walked back to the inn, the music and excitement of the club faded behind us, and we fell into a comfortable pace, leisurely strolling side by side.
My dad hooked his arm with mine, and we walked in contented silence for a few city blocks.
We approached Harvey Milk Plaza, with the Rainbow Flag bathed in moonlight.
Milk was also a New Yorker and would have been about my father’s age had his life not been tragically cut short at the age of forty-eight.
I glanced at my dad and felt goose bumps spread across my skin.
He squeezed my arm. “I’m glad we’re here together, seeing this.”
“Me too,” I said, realizing how fortunate I was that my father was standing next to me, alive and healthy.
He’d never been injured or killed in a police raid or gay-bashing incident and had made it through the AIDS epidemic.
Now he was about to marry his partner and declare his love for him publicly.
What a journey. Tears welled in my eyes.
“Tell me your story,” I blurted. “I’m ready to hear it. Your story.” It felt like I’d longed to say this for years, even if I hadn’t been fully aware of it.
My dad raised his eyebrows. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. When did you know? What was it like for you? Were you ever with a man before Mom? I’m ready to hear it all. To listen.”
I wanted to know his story completely. I now understood that fear of the unknown had led me to stifle my father’s voice.
What if it’s worse than what I already know?
What if there were other ways he betrayed Mom?
I’d held back out of loyalty to her and an uneasy sense that by permitting him to talk about his indiscretions, I approved of them.
Well, that was not how it worked. His perspective deserved my full attention, which had to be better than years of burying my curiosity and replacing it with circumspection and anger.
“Okay,” he said, “I will. Let’s go back to the inn and talk there, all right?”
I nodded, and we continued our trek back.
Once back in our suite, I poured us each a small glass of sherry and handed one to my father, along with some chocolates. He sat in one armchair, and I plopped down in the other, folding my legs under me.
I grinned. “I’ve never had sherry before.”
“Me neither,” he said, smiling.
“Really? Well, here’s to firsts.” I raised my glass.
He hesitated, his glass suspended in front of him, and then said, “Yes, to firsts. I’ll drink to that.” I knew he didn’t mean merely sherry.
My dad took a deep breath and looked like he was gathering himself. It felt like we were diving into the ocean, and once we broke the surface, there was no going back. He needed to be honest with me. I deserved it. So did he.
“I think I always knew deep down that I was gay.” He took a moment.
“I’d never been with a man before I married your mother, although I wanted to once when I was a teenager.
But I knew it wasn't an acceptable choice back then. My family was traditional, as you know.” He spoke calmly, but I sensed he was trying to contain a tide of emotions.
“And Catholic, of course. The times were a lot less tolerant. Not that they’re perfect now, by any means. ”
He took a sip of his sherry. I did the same and immediately felt a wave of warmth flow through my body. Damn, that stuff was potent. No wonder the glasses were so tiny.
“I didn’t come out to my parents until after your mom and I split up.
My mother didn’t take it well. She acted like my life was over or she was being accused of having raised me wrong.
So dramatic.” He rolled his eyes. “But my dad? He was amazing.” My father shook his head, an incredulous look on his face.
“So supportive. Even put my mom in her place.” He laughed, and I smiled.