Page 7 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
WE ARRIVED, NATURALLY, TO CHAOS.
“Allergic to spice?The hell does she mean,allergic to spice?”
We entered Sunny Sunday to find Karma and her wife, Shelly, huddled in the far corner of the kitchen, chopping fruit and whispering loudly. My half brothers, Clarence and Caleb, sat, wine in hand, in the cluster of plump linen sofas. Mom looked woefully lost as she fiddled with the stereo. Dad was nowhere to be seen.
“You can’t be allergic to a taste,” continued Karma as her tiny hands lined up a string of ripe strawberries. “You can be allergic to a food, like walnuts. You can be allergic to dairy or penicillin or grass or latex or bumblebees, but you can’t be allergic to a goddamnsensation.” The knife came down, severing the strawberries’ green heads from their bodies.
People assume that because my sister is five foot one and owns the largest cupcake chain in Chicago, she’s sweet as red velvet.
They are wrong.
Karma looked up and spotted us lingering awkwardly by the door. It was the first time we had made eye contact in three years, and she didn’t even flinch. “Well,” she said, pointing the knife right at my chest, “if it isn’t our little workaholic, come home at last.”
Before I could respond, a wave of fabric engulfed me. My vision went black. “Eliot, myGod. I’m so happy to see you.” Mom. Her words came out fast and practiced, like a monologue she’d rehearsed on the flight over. “You had me worried sick. When you weren’t at the dock, I was sure your car crashed or a truck driver kidnapped you, I swear to God. This is why you shouldn’t drive up here alone. I tried to tell you. Itriedto tell you. Your father…”
When I managed to peel myself out of her embrace, she clutched my face between her hands, eyes aglow. Then she turned to Manuel, spread her arms as wide as they would go, said, “AndManny—thank yousomuch for bringing her,” and ran him through the same punishment.
In the corner of my eye, I saw Karma roll her eyes at Shelly.
Next, I found myself face-to-face with Caleb, the firstborn. First ofallof Dad’s children.
Dad might’ve been our father, but Caleb was our patriarch. Stately and doctoral, nearly thirty years my senior, he had an almost inhuman talent for leadership. During long family discussions, he let everyone else speak first—and talk in long-winded circles—only to chime in at the very end. He’d take all the nonsense we’d spewed and sum it up concisely, wrapping our ideas and presenting them back to us with a tight little bow.
“Yes,” we would say, nodding. “That’s what we meant.”
I didn’t grow up in the same house as Caleb or Clarence. By the time I elbowed my way out into the world, they’d both grown up and settled into their own lives. While Clarence made a concerted effort to connect with his younger siblings—and to this day would probably volunteer to sit at the kids’ table, even though there were no kids left—Caleb was as foreign and unknowable to me as a stone tablet. He had his own life, a family—a wife, two teenage kids—a medical practice, and he often passed on coming to Thanksgivings or Christmases. On the rare occasion hedidjoin, he almost never brought his wife or kids along. It was as if he feared that, were his smaller family to meet his larger one, they might get swallowed up entirely.
I didn’t exactly blame him. He married his wife, Addie, just after he finished medical school. Addie was tall, gorgeous, and had this carefree way of laughing, where she tipped her head back and let it all go at once. Though I hadn’t gotten to see her much as a kid, on the few occasions that shehadcome around, I’d watched her with starry-eyed wonder, like a preteen seeing a pop star on the street. She was easygoing, fun, and had a sense of humor to rival Clarence’s. She and Caleb were completely, utterly in love.
It was a life worth protecting.
Next came Taz; his fiancée, Helene; and Helene’s parents. Second of Mom’s children and fourth overall, Taron Beck was the leading candidate for Favorite Child™. He was brilliant, steady as a freight train, logical as a computer, and most notably, had never once yelled or caused a scene in public. He moved through life on his own schedule. Took his time, weighed all options. Chose his next move based on logic, not emotion—a trait which few can honestly claim.
Which is why, when he texted a picture of an enormous diamond ring on a delicate, manicured hand just six weeks after telling us he had a girlfriend, the family erupted.
Within seconds, Karma started a text thread with all the siblings except Taz. The message said, meaningfully,WTF?
Even I—hidden away in my shoebox in Bed-Stuy, a black hole of my own making—felt the shock waves. I had always known that, in order to bring someone successfully into the Beck family, you have to allow time for acclimation. I mean, Karma and Shelly dated foreight yearsbefore tying the knot. Eight years! If I were ever to get married, it would be after a long courtship, allowing plenty of time for my theoretical fiancé to pass a long series of approvals and, of course, to give him a fair chance to run.
That night, the first in four days of wedding celebrations, was also my first time meeting my future sister-in-law. At that point, the facts I knew about her were as follows: Helene Marcus (twenty-five) was a principal ballerina at the Joffrey Ballet in downtown Chicago. On the night her company wrapped performances ofDon Quixote, they went out drinking at a bar in Streeterville. That’s where she met Taz. They exchanged numbers, met for their first date shortly thereafter. According to my mother, in the six weeks that followed, Taz left work early every day to walk the twelve blocks from his office to the Joffrey, stopping each night at a different restaurant. When Helene emerged from rehearsal, there he’d be: Taron Beck, long limbed and shy, a bag of takeout dangling from his left hand.
Helene and I didn’t shake hands. Instead, she placed a delicate palm on each of my shoulders and said, “We aresograteful you made it.” Her big eyes melted with warm sincerity. “We know how busy you are.”
Helene was followed by her parents, Pam and Tim, who wrapped me in excited hugs. Helene was their only child. They seemed pretty excited about the prospect of inheriting five more.
Poor saps, I thought.No idea what they’re marrying into.
And then: Shelly. My sister’s wife.
She stepped forward, dark curly hair swishing, and squinted her eyes playfully, wrinkling the dark skin around them. “You promised to tell me about every restaurant you tried in New York,” she said, reaching out one hand and lightly squeezing my arm. “Three years, and I haven’t heard about even one.”
Food is what brought Karma and Shelly together. Karma’s a baker, Shelly’s a chef. Both women are Big Deals in their own rights, but when they met, they were nothing more than kitchen interns who frequented the same bars after work. The culinary scene in Chicago is small. The single, gay, early twenties scene is also small. The single, gay, early twenties, involved-in-the-culinary-world-in-Chicago scene is nearly microscopic.
I love my sister-in-law. When I was a kid, Karma teased me relentlessly—Eliot and Manny sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G—but Shelly always had my back. A wink, a squeeze of the arm, a few words saying, “Ease up, Karm. Let Boose do her thing.” Quiet comfort, the counterpoint to my sister’s loud confidence. But don’t mistake her kindness for weakness; I’ve seen what Shelly can do with a knife.
My siblings call me Boose. Or Gup, sometimes, as in Guppy. As in the youngest, the smallest, the tail end of the family. I used to love my nicknames. In many ways I still do, but since Henry’s death…I don’t know. It isn’t the same. I’m still the caboose, but mylink to the rest of the train vanished a long time ago. They’re all chugging ahead, far ahead, years ahead, and I’m back here.
On my own, as ever.
