Thirty-Three
Sam understood that Nina was offering him a kind of quid pro quo: she got Finn and he got freedom or something like it, but when was life ever that easy?
Life certainly hadn’t been simple for Finn and Nina after the salmonella incident, which Sam had also quietly enjoyed.
Not the illness part—he felt terrible about the old lady who died—but the comeuppance part.
The uncle had done the right thing, but Nina had sprinted to a faraway altar to marry a hard-charging business owner and ended up with an emasculated figurehead.
If Nina had managed to convince herself she was doing him a favor, releasing him to indulge in the Garret of it all, she was deluded because deep down she had to know the opposite was true.
The scandal, local as it may have been, had made him the object of constant scrutiny and, worse, already placed him on the receiving end of all kinds of potential fix-ups and blind dates.
He couldn’t believe how quickly the masses had moved in on him.
Nina had managed to release him into a previous version of himself: the reluctant bachelor once again.
For now, it was easy for him to say he wasn’t ready, needed to focus on his girls and work, and people would back off, but soon the pressure to start dating would return.
And then there was Garret. He had no intention of telling Garret about Nina and Finn.
Not yet. But Garret found out. He’d grown up in Rochester, had worked at Xerox in Webster before being transferred to Palo Alto with the other genius recruits from around the world who were all convinced they held the future not only of Xerox but of humanity in their hands.
Every time Sam went out to Palo Alto, he found the excitement and enthusiasm at PARC contagious.
In the company of the engineers, as odd as they were brilliant, it all sounded possible, probable even.
So many smart people! So many bold ideas!
Sam had specifically been recruited to join Xerox as it was starting to lose market exclusivity.
Between expired patents and antitrust enforcement, the once-mighty copier monopoly was wounded and bleeding.
It seemed obvious to Sam that the future of the company resided at PARC.
He believed in the Alto computer they’d built, believed the entire Alto system was revolutionary, and Garret was the evangelist he sought out for information, understanding, selling points, because convincing the higher powers at Xerox to embrace—and invest—in the unknown was no small feat.
He and Garret had worked together on the big company conference in Boca Raton, the one that was supposed to define the company’s strategy for the coming decade.
They were in charge of the final presentation of the week, the highly anticipated “Futures Day” exhibit where all the top executives would finally see what the motley crew at PARC had been toiling over for the past seven years.
As the PARC staff piled onto the stage of the massive hotel ballroom to begin their demonstration, a booming voice-over filled the room, telling the audience of former and current copier executives that “the problem is paper.” Sam’s heart sank.
He hadn’t approved that line, and it was sure to set everyone on edge.
Still, his hopes rose during the mind-blowing demonstration of the Alto system, with its electronic keyboard, computer mouse, processor, screen, and printer.
The team showed off the most advanced functions of the software: shooting office memos back and forth from California to Florida, drawing graphs and organizational charts, exhibiting a simplified way to type Japanese characters—something that had befuddled the organization for years—and so much more.
The exhibit was open all day, and Sam popped in and out to watch people engage with the machines, increasingly discouraged.
The senior executives reeked of disregard.
Most of them stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, as their enthusiastic wives—many of them their former secretaries—learned how to use the computer mouse and excitedly worked the program.
Sam knew what the men were thinking: what they’d feared for years, a tangible threat to the company’s cash cow copying business, had not only arrived, it was coming from inside their own house.
“I think it’s going really well,” Garret said to Sam toward the end of the day. “When can we sneak out and get a drink?”
“We can’t,” Sam said. “I’m here with my wife.”
“I’m very good with wives,” Garret said as Sam thought, Not a chance.
By then, by the time of the conference, Garret had not only seen through Sam’s carefully constructed presentation as a straight man but had successfully seduced him.
Lured Sam (oh, Sam knew he was using the wrong words, he had not been a victim, he was not absolved) back to his apartment, where inexplicably thrilling things had happened.
That Garret was a perfectly comfortable out gay man, someone who seemingly had zero conflicts about his identity or activism, fascinated and terrified Sam.
Garret called Sam after the absurd wedding announcement appeared in the paper, tipped off by someone at Xerox, no doubt.
He wanted to know if Sam was okay but almost immediately began pushing to visit.
“I know it’s complicated, but isn’t this what the believers call a ‘blessing in disguise’? ”
What was Sam supposed to do now? Start dating men? Start showing up by himself at Margaret’s or other gay bars downtown: Jim’s or the Rathskeller? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. But he also couldn’t avoid Garret forever, even if they did live on separate coasts.
Now that Sam was on the receiving end of all Garret’s knowledge about the gay scene in Rochester, he supposed Garret was right to call him uptight and old-fashioned.
Garret told him about the private dinners around town for successful, wealthy men who were happily living dual lives, including the former mayor.
The mayor! He introduced him to a deftly organized group of men and women out of the University of Rochester who had started one of the first gay newspapers in the country and continued to vocally and visibly demand basic human rights for themselves.
“I’m so damn proud of these kids,” Garret said, sounding like a boastful parent. It’s a whole new world!
Sam was not fighting for—anything. He wasn’t engaged or involved or even particularly well informed because he was paranoid and terrified of losing his job.
Just hanging out with Garret outside of the office was saying something.
None of the sales force or higher-level executives were comfortable with Garret’s brand of gay, which was unabashed.
Oh, Xerox wouldn’t say they’d fired Sam for being gay, they’d concoct some other reason, but the company would not tolerate whispers about their very visible marketing director.
And there were his daughters to think about.
They’d had enough confusion and disruption in their lives.
He had no intention of exploding their world twice.
He would be better than Nina in that way.
He would claim the higher ground with its more satisfying view.
When he came home from work one evening in April and walked into the living room and heard Garret laughing in the kitchen with Clara, his initial reaction was outrage.
How could he be here uninvited and unannounced?
Sam angrily strode into the kitchen, brought up by the sight of Garret sitting at his kitchen farm table.
Nina had asked repeatedly if she could have the table, which technically was hers, but he hadn’t let her remove a notepad from his house.
His house. Garret had a glass of red wine in front of him, and Bridie was sitting next to him drinking a Fresca.
Clara was in her usual spot, wearing one of Nina’s old aprons, standing at the stove, stirring something in an oversized cast-iron pot.
The three of them were laughing as Garret drew on a piece of paper, probably some kind of computer network, and Sam watched the girls watching Garret, riveted. He cleared his throat.
“Dad!” Bridie jumped up and ran to him. “Your friend from California is here.”
“I see that,” Sam said, removing his heavy tweed coat, which still smelled like the one cigarette he allowed himself while driving home at the end of the day, and hanging it on a hook in the back hall.
“Garret was telling us about San Francisco,” Clara said.
“I want to go,” Bridie said.
“You have quite the cook there.” Garret refilled his wineglass, nodding his head to indicate Clara, deftly mincing fresh rosemary.
“I sure do. I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Very last minute,” Garret said. “Decided to come in for my mother’s birthday tomorrow and I was driving by and thought I’d ring the bell and see who was home. Didn’t expect to find these remarkably entertaining young women.”
“How did you know this was our house?” Bridie asked, and Sam hoped he was imagining the slight edge to her voice.
“Company directory,” Garret lied.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Clara said to Garret. “We have plenty.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Garret said, winking at Sam. “I’d love to.”
WHEN GARRET WALKED INTO THE house, Bridie recognized him immediately as the man in the photo that she had taken from her father’s wallet and placed in the old cookie tin in her closet where she kept her pilfered items. She was happy her father had a friend visiting.
Since Nina left it had only been the three of them at home, which was fine, but sometimes a little sad and lonely.
Bridie snuck over to her mother’s house a few times a week when Clara was otherwise occupied.
She didn’t talk about visiting and Clara didn’t ask.
Bridie supposed they’d reached some kind of detente in that way, but it was funny how having a fourth person at dinner felt better.
As if they’d been sitting at a lopsided table and someone slipped a matchbook beneath the wobbly leg and everything snapped into place, even though Garret wasn’t her mother.
After dinner, Garret said he had to run (Bridie noticed he didn’t offer to help with the dishes) and thanked them all and mock-solemnly shook Bridie’s hand and Clara’s hand, saying, “Ladies. Good eve to you both,” like he was a Shakespearean character or something.
Sam told them he’d clean up and they should go finish their homework.
Bridie went straight to her closet and pulled out the tin and rummaged through until she found the folded newspaper photo. She knocked on Clara’s door.
“What is this?” Clara asked, smoothing out the piece of newsprint on her bedspread.
“Something I found a few months ago while I was going through Dad’s wallet.”
“You took it?”
Bridie shrugged.
“You are such a little thief. Our crafty little pickpocket. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were shoplifting all the time.”
“I don’t shoplift!”
“Why did you take this, sticky fingers?”
“I don’t know. I liked the photo of Dad sitting in a beanbag chair. That’s Garret,” she said, pointing to a person on the left, leaning forward.
“Yeah, I know,” Clara said, glum. She folded the piece of paper.
“What’s wrong?” Bridie asked.
“Nothing.”
“I thought he was nice,” Bridie said.
“Yeah, he was nice. Now scram. I have homework.”
Bridie left the photo on Clara’s bed, and after she left, Clara took another look.
Her father looked so out of place, the only one wearing a suit, his short hair slicked back with a severe side part.
He was sitting awkwardly in the beanbag chair, which, according to the caption, was where all meetings at PARC were conducted.
All the other people in the photo looked at ease and like they were dressed for a picnic.
Or a sit-in. One woman was smoking and wearing sandals and a turtleneck.
One of the men had bare feet. Everyone in the photo was smiling at the guy in front of a whiteboard full of indecipherable scribbling, except for Garret. Who was looking straight at her dad.