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The Edge of Grace
By Christa Allan
Abingdon PressCopyright © 2011 Christa Allan
All rights reserved.
The last two words I said to my brother David that Saturday were "oh" and "no," and not in the same sentence—though they should have been.
On an otherwise ordinary, cartoon-filled morning, my son Ben sat at the kitchen table spiraling a limp bacon slice around his finger. His last ditch effort to forestall doing his chores. I was having a domestic bonding experience with the vacuum cleaner. My last ditch effort to forestall the house being overtaken by microscopic bugs, dead skin, and petrified crumbs. I'd just summoned the courage to attempt a pre-emptive strike on the intruders under the sofa cushions when the phone rang.
I walked into the kitchen, gave Ben the "don't you dare touch that phone with your greasy bacon hands" stare, and grabbed the handset.
It was David. "I wanted you to hear this from me," he said.
An all-too familiar sensation—that breath-sucking, plummeting roller-coaster feeling—I'm thinking he's been fired, in a car wreck, diagnosed with cancer, six months to live, but, no, it wasn't as simple as that.
He told me he was leaving in a few days for a vacation. With a man. Leaving with a man.
Crossing state lines from Louisiana to Mexico to share sun, sand, and sheets with a person of the same sex.
My universe shifted.
He came out of the closet, and I went into it. For perhaps only the second time in my life, I was mute. Not even sputtering, not even spewing senseless syllables. Speechless.
"Caryn, are you still there?"
No. I'm not still here. I'm miles away and I'm stomping my feet and holding my breath in front of the God Who Makes All Monsters Disappear.
I think I hear God. He's telling me I'm the monster.
Wisps of sounds. They belonged to David. "Did you hear what I said? That I'm going away?"
I hung up. I didn't ask "Why?" because he'd tell me the truth my heart already knew.
"What did Uncle David want?" Ben asked.
I spun around and made eye contact with my unsuspecting innocent. "Get that bacon off your finger right now, mister. Wash your hands, and go do whatever it is you're supposed to be doing."
He shoved the bacon in his mouth, his face the solemn reflection of my emotional slap. From the den television, the Nickelodeon Gummy Bears filled the stillness with their "... bouncing here, there, and everrrrrywherre ..." song.
"And turn that television off on the way back to your room."
"Okay, Mom," said Ben, his words a white flag of surrender as he left the room.
Now what? I decided to abandon the vacuuming. Really, was I supposed to fret about Multi-Grain Wheat Thin crumbs and popcorn seeds when my only sibling was leaving for Mexico with a man?
The phone rang. Again.
"You hung up on me," David said.
"I don't know what to say." I opened the refrigerator. The burp of stale air cooled my face as I stalked the shelves of meals past and future. I'd find solace in one of those containers. Maybe more than one. I'd solace myself until the voice on the phone went away.
David reminded me there were alternatives to hanging up.
Alternatives? You want to talk alternatives? How about I'm hung up on your alternative lifestyle?
Between the sour cream and a stalk of tired celery, I found an abandoned crusty cinnamon roll in a ball of crinkled foil. I unwrapped it and plowed my finger through the glop of shiny, pasty icing smeared inside and said, "But you and Lori just finished wallpapering your bathroom. You remember her, right? Your fiancée?"
"Lori knows," he said.
I grabbed the two fudge brownies with cavities where Ben already had picked out the walnuts.
"Uh huh." I fought the urge to hang up again.
"Is that all you're going to say?"
No, that wasn't all I could say. I was going to say I was ever so sorry for answering the phone. I wanted to say that I hate you. I wanted to say that of all that things you could have been, gay was not what I would've chosen. I wanted to say that I didn't want to imagine you in bed with a man. I didn't want to know that what we had in common was that we both slept with men. I wanted to say that if our mother hadn't already died of cancer, she would've keeled over with this news.
"Lori and I are working this out," he said.
I fumbled for words like keys in the black hole of my purse. My brain rummaged for syllables and sounds, buried under a clever adage, a witty phrase. But all I could choke out was an "Oh."
"Don't you even want to know who I'm going with?" He sounded small, like he was the one being left behind.
Then, with a level of intimacy I reserved for nighttime marketers of exterior siding, I told him good-bye.
I walked to where I'd left the vacuum handle propped against the den wall, flipped the switch, and pushed the vacuum back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I pictured the unwary bugs caught in the vortex. I knew just how they felt. I'd been in this wind tunnel before, when Harrison died and without my permission.
Sometimes husbands could be so maddening.
And, once again, Harrison, where are you when I need you? Who am I supposed to talk to about this? Not Ben. Not my father. Don't give me that condescending "life isn't fair" mantra. You're right. It's not.
I yanked the cord out of the wall, pressed the button that zipped it into the belly of the beast and steered the machine toward Ben's room.
My almost seven-year-old sat on the floor of his bedroom tying his navy Sketchers when he saw me at the door. "Hey, Mom. I washed my hands." He held them up, wiggled them in front of his face as proof. "See?"
"Where are your socks, Ben?"
Harrison again. Caryn, the world's not going to stop spinning because the kid's not wearing socks.
Ben doubled the knot, pulled the laces, and looked up at me. His sprinkle of freckles and his cleft chin, totally stolen from his dad, weakened me. How could there be anything wrong in the universe when his precious face slips into that soft spot in my heart?
"I couldn't find two socks that matched. Besides," he stood and stomped his sneakers on the floor, "these are almost too small. My feet get all squinchy when I'm wearing socks." He pulled the elastic band on his basketball shorts up past his waist. We both knew the shorts would slide right back down in minutes. A battle he always lost. "So, can I go play Wii with Nick now?"
My only child wore shoes that crushed his toes. How did I miss that? "Why didn't you tell me your shoes were too small?"
"No big deal, Mom. Anyway, remember you said we'd go shopping with Uncle David before school started." Ben grabbed his frayed purple L.S.U. cap off his desk lamp. "Can I go now?"
"Sure. Just be home for lunch." I hugged him, and when I felt his arms lock around my waist, I wondered how I still deserved him.
I must have latched on a bit too long because he started to squirm away. "Mom. You okay?" Ben stepped out of my arms, turned his baseball cap backward over his sand-colored hair, raised his arms, plopped his hands on the top of his cap, and waited.
"Of course," I said, tweaking his nose, hoping he heard the lie in my voice and didn't see the truth in my eyes. "Plug that cord in for me on your way out, okay?"
"Got it. See ya." The front door slammed. It opened again. "Oops, sorry about that," he called out, and then the door closed solidly.
Well, Harrison. Door closing. That's one lesson learned.
I moved Ben's lamp to the back of his desk and straightened the framed picture that the lamp had slid into when he'd grabbed his hat. Bacchus, his first Mardi Gras parade captured in the photograph. I'd always called it the "man" picture. Ben's crescent moon smile as Harrison hoisted him on his shoulders, my father and David flanking Harrison, both grinning at Ben and not the camera.
One man already gone. Now David. At least the David I thought I knew. Wasn't that the David that just last week sat next to me in church? The church he'd invited me to for the first time a month ago? How could he have done that? He's certifiably crazy if he thinks I'm going to church tomorrow. That's not going to happen.
I mashed the vacuum cleaner switch on and returned to the sucking up of dirt. It seemed all too appropriate for my life.CHAPTER 2
Ben told Nick you looked sad. And you didn't ask if he'd brushed his teeth after breakfast, and he warned me not to ask about his Uncle David." Julie stepped in the foyer and closed the front door. "Figured code orange. I zipped right over."
Neighbors for years, Julie and I color-coded our traumas; Julie called it our Homeland Sanity Advisory. Below yellow, phone calls would be sufficient. Yellow or above, always a face-to-face.
Standing in the den, the bug-sucking beast still at my side, I must have looked like Martha Stewart, the prison months. But Julie looked me over and didn't say anything about my stupor or my morning bed-hair, which probably poked out from my scalp like clusters of brown twigs.
"Drop the handle," she said and marched right past me, looking all the more stern with her copper hair pulled into a neat ponytail at the nape of her long neck. A woman on a mission. I plodded behind her and hoped her trail of lemony-rose fragrance would settle itself on me and maybe compensate for the shower I needed.
Julie grabbed two glasses from the dish rack by the sink, filled them with iced tea, handed me one and walked over to the sofa with hers.
"Come. Sit." Julie patted the suede sofa cushion next to her. Its original pewter shade had been softened by the patina of lazy weekend movie watching, shuffling visits of family and friends, and the bouncing of a round-faced toddler.
I sunk into the sofa as she wedged an over-sized throw pillow behind her back. Julie kicked off her beaded flip-flops and plopped her toenail-polished feet on the glass coffee table between a chipped stoneware vase and a wicker basket holding an assortment of pine cones.
"Okay. Give it up. And don't give me the microwave version," Julie demanded. "You're still wandering around in your jammies, so I know it's gotta be big."
Julie and I gave up boundaries years ago. She was the sister my parents never gave me, and the only person allowed in the dressing room when I shopped for bathing suits. Once someone charted every dimple in your thighs, it wasn't a long way to knowing every dimple in your life.
"It's ..." Deep breath ... "Well, it's David." I set my glass on the July issue of Good Housekeeping, right over the picture of the Year's Best Banana Pudding. The room felt as steamy as asphalt after a hard August rain. I leaned against the back cushions, closed my eyes, and flipped through the memories of my life that'd unfolded on this sofa, in this room, with Julie by my side. Gain seemed outscored by loss. But, no matter what, we'd always depended on faith and friendship to buoy us as we navigated life's rivers. Like today, when an undertow threatened to yank me away.
She leaned toward me. "What happened? Is he okay?"
I opened my eyes. Gazed out the den window. Fingerprint smudges and splattered lovebugs almost blocked the view of the weeds that had overtaken what was supposed to have been a vegetable garden. I waited for the tidal wave of sorrow that would deplete itself in my sobs. Nothing. Maybe empty's the new full. Like orange is the new pink or something.
The words tumbled out of my mouth like marbles dropped from a jar. "David called this morning. He's gay. He called to tell me he's gay. Well, not that he said he's gay. No, I guess he didn't have to say that because he said he was going to Mexico with a man, by himself, and why would he being doing that if he wasn't, right?" I rubbed my temples with my fingertips. Was I massaging reality in or out? "My brother's gay."
I waited for Julie to react. I stared. I waited.
Whatever anxious concern she'd carried, she must have flushed it out with the tea she'd just finished.
"Uh-huh. Go on." Julie shifted, recrossed her legs on the table, and looked at me.
Her expression was, well, expressionless.
A sour bubble of anxiety popped in my stomach. "Uh-huh? Go on? Go on to what? To where? What do you mean? You did hear me, didn't you?" My voice stretched so thin it grated leaving my throat.
"I heard you. I'm just not all that shocked," she said with a tender weariness—like when I tell Ben for the umpteenth time to stop digging snot out of his nose when we're in the grocery store—and patted my hand. "Caryn, click your heels together. It's time to leave Oz. Your brother's gay. He's still your brother. The same brother you loved seconds before the phone call."
"Seriously? You're telling me this is okay?" She couldn't be. Of all people, Julie would share my outrage, not intensify it.
"He's your brother. Want to ignore him? Sure. Who's left? Your father married the step-monster after your mom died. That's all you've got. You're going to adopt her?" She was on the verge of endangering her best-friend status. "Don't be ridiculous."
"There are some advantages here. Maybe we could think about those."
"No, let's not," I said. "And why are you smiling? This isn't funny. At. All." I didn't need a mirror to know I wore my injured-morose expression.
"I'm not laughing at you or your brother. I'm still surprised you didn't suspect this. In fact, I'm a bit shocked—"
The dryer signal blared from the laundry room and startled me. It reminded me today was still an ordinary Saturday. "Julie, I'm stunned. Horrified. The thing is, this is my brother. My only brother. My only sibling. It's different somehow when it happens in your own family. I mean, how would you feel if we were talking about your brother?"
She shrugged her shoulders, raked her bangs off her forehead with her fingers, and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. "How would I feel? I wish my brother was gay. Instead, he's unemployed, he drinks too much, and he's an idiot."
"You don't understand. You can't understand." I rolled up the short sleeves of my cotton T-shirt. If only I could sweat out the pain and frustration. "It's not that simple. If he was your brother—alcoholic idiot or not—you'd be afraid to close your eyes because when you do, there's a snapshot of him and his other holding hands on the beach." I gulped my tea hoping it would lower my body's thermostat.
"Okay. So in that snapshot, my brother's throwing up on the beach."
The annoying, insistent dryer blared again. "I'm going to turn off that obnoxious buzzer of yours and get us a refill. Don't go anywhere." Julie smiled, kicked her shoes out of her way, and headed for the laundry room.
Because I am a mother and doomed to guilt, I wondered if his gayness is my fault. If I hadn't been such a nerd in high school, I could have saved him. If I hadn't devoted my college years to Harrison, I could've spent more time with David.
Julie returned, and my train of thought ran off the tracks. "Here you go." She placed my glass on the coffee table and sat on the sofa facing me. "Look, I suppose I haven't sounded sympathetic, but I'm sorry this is so painful for you. Thing is, Caryn, I don't feel sorry for you because you have a gay brother. Maybe it's all semantics, but I do feel sorry for your having to struggle through this. Without Harrison. Without your mom. But you don't have to do this alone." She reached over and hugged me. "Would it help you to talk to Vince? I could go with you."
"As in Pastor Vince? No. Definitely no. It's hard enough to talk to you about this." As if I'm going to tell the pastor I barely know that my brother, who's been going to services there for years, is gay.
"Okay," she said, but with a voice that made it sound not okay. "But that's what he's there for you know. And for all you know, Vince might already know that."
"I know, but he and I just met last week to talk about catering his daughter's wedding. One issue at a time. Besides," I twisted my watch around my wrist to check the time, "that catering contract could be big."
She swallowed the ice she'd been crunching. "Like the boys say, 'Get cereal.' Get serious Caryn. Like David being gay has anything to do with your catering business." She grabbed her flip-flops and slipped them on her feet. "And don't worry about Ben. Trey wanted to take the boys to the real bowling alley. He's probably tired of them beating him on Wii."
Excerpted from The Edge of Grace by Christa Allan. Copyright © 2011 Christa Allan. Excerpted by permission of Abingdon Press.
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