Page 23 of Exquisite Things
The more certain I am it’s him.
Oliver. Boston. April to May. 1920.
While I’m at wrestling practice, Shams calls our new telephone, which we hardly ever use. Mother prefers letters. She begs my brother, Liam, to write from Yale instead of resorting to lazy phone calls. She believes written communication requires thought and intention. A phone call should be for emergencies. She only agreed to install the telephone after Father died. She knew Liam was right when he said that with a telephone, we might have been able to say goodbye to Father. “A friend called for you,” she says as I come home from wrestling practice, my heart still racing from the exercise, my clothes sticking to me with sweat.
“Oh?” I ask, knowing it must be him.
“He left a phone number, but no name.” She approaches me with a piece of paper. “I asked if he goes to school with you, and he said he doesn’t. He said he met you through Brendan and that you had offered to give him piano lessons.”
All true. I did meet Shams because Brendan took me to the Rooster. And after I played for the patrons of the bar, after he marveled at my musicianship and said he wished he could play like me, I said I could teach him. It wasn’t meant as a serious offer, butperhaps that’s how he took it. I snatch the paper from her hand and try to make a getaway.
“Oliver, honey, wait,” Mother says with an ache in her voice.
I turn around. “I need to shower,” I say.
“Why don’t you shower in the locker room after practice?” she asks, without a clue as to why I might not want to be naked as an oafish team of boys mock each other’s bodies and slap each other’s bare buttocks and, when the mood strikes, find an opportunity to spit out what they would do if a pansy ever dared to so much as look at them. “Don’t they have showers for you?” she continues when I don’t answer the question. I want to start my life in college, at Harvard, where there are other boys like me congregating in Brendan’s room. Not now, when I’m still in high school, surrounded by brutes who want nothing more than to pluck the daisies from the world before they’ve had a chance to bloom.
I have every intention of blooming, don’t I?
“The showers are filthy.” I grimace. “I much prefer washing up at home. You always keep everything so clean.”
Mother approaches me and takes my hand in hers. Her eyes still sparkle with a hint of the girl she once was, but her hands betray the roughness of her life. The needle pricks she’s suffered while sewing hems, the cuts from the old machine she’s forced to use because her employers are too stingy to purchase the safer new models. I kiss her hand, pressing my lips against the deepest of her scars. I want to heal her.
“Son, I’d like to talk to you about something... sensitive,” she says.
My heart sinks lower than my chest. It feels like it’s in my groin somewhere, searching for a crevice that might allow it an escape from this body. Someone must have told her. Perhaps it was Shamson the phone. Did he tell her we were at a pansy club? Or was it Brendan? No, Brendan would never. Mother is his aunt. She would immediately call Father’s sister and tell her. It could have been anyone, really. Jack’s name suddenly hits me like a strong wind. If anyone would be cruel enough to break my mother’s heart, it would be The Jackal.
I can imagine it in my head. Jack Whitman pulling up to our small home in some gargantuan limousine driven by a uniformed chauffeur. Knocking on our door. Telling my mother he’s a concerned friend who has come to warn her that her son is going down a path of sin and damnation.
“Who... who told you?” I ask, the shake in my voice like those trills in Debussy’sL’isle joyeuse.
“I already said,” she explains, confused. “This friend you met called. He told me you were going to teach him piano.”
I hold her gaze for what feels like an hour, but the second hand on our wall clock only ticks five times.
“Son...” She bites her lip. “You’re a good boy. A dutiful boy. You’ve always made life easier for me. Keeping to your studies. Never causing trouble.”
“I won’t cause trouble,” I promise.
“I know you won’t.” She sighs. “Sometimes I wish you would. Nothing serious, of course. But you’re a young boy. You should be out having fun sometimes. All you do in your spare time is go to Brendan’s room to learn from him.”
“I’m confused,” I confess. “What is the sensitive matter you wanted to discuss?” I hear the desperation in my voice. If she’s going to confront me about spending time with homosexuals—aboutbeingone—I just want to get it over and done with.
“I don’t want you working,” she declares.
“That’s—That’s what you wanted to discuss?” I ask.
She nods. “I know you hate how hard I work for you. I see the way you look at my hands. But working for you to have a good life is what brings me joy. I want you focused on your studies and on that scholarship. You can teach people the piano later if you like. But hopefully you’ll be doing something much more meaningful.”
“What’s more meaningful than music?” I ask.
Her eyes moisten. She offers me a pained smile. “Unfortunately, in this world, the most meaningful thing is money. I know that’s why you offered to teach this boy. And I won’t have you taking that on yourself.Imake the money in this home. Is that clear?”
I nod in relief. I thought this was going to bethemoment of truth. Turned out it was justamoment of truth. “It’s clear, Mother. But I want you to know...” I pause, imagining the future I want for myself. A man by my side. Perhaps Shams even. He’ll have to do for now to fill in the fantasy. A Harvard degree. A lucrative job in music. Are there lucrative jobs in music? Well, it’s a dream, so let’s say yes. Children. Can we have children? In my fantasy, we can. Not boys like me and Liam. Boys are so exhausting. We’ll have two beautiful girls, and the firstborn will be named after Mother. Margaret. We’ll call her Maggie.
“Yes?” she says. “What do you want me to know?”
I give her a strong hug. Her body feels at once powerful and frail. She’s a bundle of contradictions, just like me. “I want you to know that when I do graduate and start working, it will be my turn to take care of you. I’ll buy you a house on the Cape. You love the water.”
