Chapter Thirteen
Martin’s week has been a blur after the memorial for his mom.
Sometimes I feel that events like these, which are meant to bring everyone together formally, only serve to create a space where no one actually can visit.
I haven’t even had a chance to really speak to Martin, even though I was there for the memorial and the family gatherings that followed.
Sure, everyone gets to say their condolences and there’s a lot of hugging and back-clapping, but heartfelt conversation is difficult to initiate.
So when Martin calls and says he’s cooking and we need to hang out and visit, I’m all in.
Tonight is Thai night. Coconut curry soup.
Sounds simple, but based on previous experience, fine cuisine awaits.
We’re after two ingredients that are required and not available at a regular supermarket: fish sauce and Thai basil.
I know this because I’m holding the scrap of paper Martin has scribbled on, a shopping list so we don’t forget the two ingredients we’ve come for.
We’re making our way through the narrow aisles, laughing and joking, which just feels good since the last week has been so emotional.
“My mom loved this place,” Martin is reminiscing.
We pass the frozen food section which contains many things that I don’t even recognize.
I can’t tell if this display contains fish or root vegetables.
“She loved how there are always surprises and something to learn from this store, like around every corner is some ingredient or spice or noodle that we must learn about and find a recipe for.”
I love to hear Martin talk fondly of his mom.
The two of them are creative beings, always pressing the envelope on innovation and trying new things.
I also love that their grand experiment of life leads them to the ingredients, not the finished product served to them by someone else.
To me, this store with its over-packed, tiny aisles and strangely written labels is a bit overwhelming.
“Let’s eat in her honor tonight,” I say.
“I think the Thai basil is in the back with the greens,” he says, rounding a corner.
There is a refrigerator case with all kinds of greens in various stages of wilt and I recognize the bok choy, and maybe the sweet potato leaves, but everything else is foreign to me and requires parsing the handwritten labels.
I see napa cabbage, mustard greens, and many with Asian names my brain can’t hold on to.
I mindlessly check the scrap of paper in my hand, the two ingredients written in Martin’s sloppy handwriting.
It strikes me as ironic that someone so precise about everything else, like making a shopping list for two items, has such a disregard for penmanship, or even staying within the lines.
“I don’t know how you function,” I say, showing him the marks on the paper, “I can barely read what you’ve written.”
He looks at me through the tops of his eye sockets and furrows his brow. “You can’t read that?”
“No,” I snort, “I mean, yes, but it’s such a mess.”
With only an eye-tilt, he looks at the writing and then back at me. “It’s readable. We need Thai basil.”
“Yeah. And fish sauce. I get it. It’s just messy.”
He looks away from the list and jabs a hand through the pile of basil, “Next time, you can write the list.”
“For two items? I think I can remember two items.” I stuff the tiny paper into my pocket.
His face twists up without turning my way, and he exhales.
He begins to meticulously dig through the bound stalks, looking for the perfect leaves while I head toward the assortment of eggs in the same open refrigerator case. There are tiny quail eggs in small cartons and loose, spotted duck eggs in foam displays.
“So something happened with my secret person,” I say, peering closely at the foreign print on the display case.
He freezes mid-selection and turns to me, then looks beyond.
I pick up a teeny carton of the tiny eggs, which keep my hands busy while I talk.
“I was sent on an adventure and it was a bust.”
He looks at me, but doesn’t speak. His face is asking the questions that he’s not.
I pause for a minute, holding the quail egg carton in both hands. “It’s okay. I’m not upset about it,” I say. “I’m actually kind of glad.”
His face curls up in a funny way and he waves Thai basil at me when he speaks, “What do you mean?”
I put the tiny eggs back and grab a large, splotchy one that is sold individually. “You want to know something funny?” I spin the fragile egg in my hands, examining the dark spots.
“Yeah.”
“It was a jewelry store. Halloway’s on 3rd Street. You know, the one with the clock out front?”
He nods with a blink.
“Yeah, my secret person sent me to a jewelry store.” I grip the egg firmly in one hand. “And I went. That’s what is so strange to me. Or maybe it’s not strange to me anymore, I don’t know.”
“Wow, Liam,” Martin says, turning to grab a final sprig of basil and then stepping closer. “Jewelry store, huh. What do you think for?”
“I guess I’ll never know. There was nothing for me there. I was supposed to go pick up something, like a gift I guess. But when I arrived, there was nothing to pick up, no message for me.”
I set the splotchy egg back in its case and turn to Martin, who has this look like he has a million questions and can’t choose which one to start with.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says, leaning his backside against the fridge case.
“Sure.” I have a strong urge to select another unusual egg to fidget with, but I can’t look away from Martin long enough.
He makes an attempt several times before words actually form. “Are you okay receiving jewelry from…” he stops himself, looking away.
“From a guy?” I whisper. He looks back at me again, unblinking. I try to force a casual laugh, but it comes out jagged. “First of all, we don’t know it was jewelry. And second of all…”
I can’t finish either. I try to keep smiling.
The moment freezes between us.
“Martin, I don’t really know how I feel, if that’s what you’re asking.” I grab a massive green egg and hold on for dear life. “I can’t really articulate what I’m thinking.”
“Do you think that you and your secret person are at a jewelry-exchanging level?”
My jaw drops instinctively. “We’ve never met,” I blurt. A small woman squeezes by us, commenting politely. We lean into the fridge together to give her space, the cold air chilling my neck. “I’ve never met him. I don’t even know what to think,” I confess. I feel like I’m mumbling.
He looks at the basil in his hand.
“What was it like for you?” I ask, not sure how this is going to play out, but I’m all in now.
“What was what like?”
“Being gay. At first,” I ask softly. I desperately need to set this egg down before something terrible happens. I do so gently, then look at Martin, who seems to be searching for something in his brain.
“That’s, uh…” he stops himself and starts again, only to falter.
I hang my head for a minute, noticing the pattern of the floor tiles for the first time.
The silence seems to speak for itself. “That’s okay,” I say slowly, not able to make eye contact.
“You don’t have to answer that question.
We should probably head out.” I start a slow turn back to the front of the store.
“I didn’t mean to get so serious. What else did we need?
Fish sauce?” I’m looking around the store.
He’s following me down the aisle.
“Liam, it’s not too serious. It’s just a lot to take in, the fact that you and I are having a conversation about guys.”
I stop and turn to him. We’re still in the open fridge section, now overflowing with every kind of mushroom imaginable. The chill burns through my shirt. The space between us is warm.
“Do you think it’s possible that…” I pause, but can’t look away from him. His blue eyes are swimming in the open fridge light, “that something could be right in front of your face from the start, and you just can’t see it? Like something prevents you from acknowledging it?”
He stares for a moment. “Sure,” he exhales softly. I feel the warmth on my face.
I look from his eyes to the floor. “Maybe I’m just starting to see it. Maybe that’s what this is.”
I hear the pace of his breath shift, but I don’t look up.
“You mean… with your secret person?” The words are soft, barely audible.
I look up into his eyes again. He’s not blinking and there’s a desperation I don’t understand.
I get lost for a moment in the storm of blue around his pupils, the tilt of his brow in the question.
Neither of us speak, with words at least, but I feel like there’s much being said.
“I haven’t actually met this guy,” I finally say, smiling coyly.
“So there’s that!” I breathe a small laugh and suddenly Martin is laughing with me, so quietly the mushrooms can’t hear.
Our quiet laughter breaks and Martin is smiling. “The way you’re handling this. You seem like you’re just going to take life at its fullest. It’s a beautiful thing to see and I’m glad I can share that with you.” He’s full-face smiling, his eyes steady.
I smile back, almost painfully, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
“Mostly, I just don’t know what I’m doing.
Just going for it, I guess.” The hum of the fridge changes to a lower pitch.
We stand for an awkwardly long moment until a woman approaches, reaching for a very large mushroom with a small bow and polite words in another language.
Moving apart, we meet each other’s gaze momentarily, then look away. Before I know it, I’m following him through the aisles again, retrieving the scrap of paper with that messy list for something to hold on to, at least.