Chapter Thirty One

GRAYSON

Everyone is gathered around a cluster of adjoined tables here at Armando's, the fanciest restaurant Franklinton has to offer. In some ways it feels like a long-overdue Thanksgiving reunion. Alex and Miles insist on footing the bill for everyone. And at twenty-five bucks a person, I think I'll let them. Even though Jake only charged me for things at cost, Julian's funeral is running me a pretty penny. But I absolutely wouldn't have it any other way. He deserves to be remembered properly.

Ma sits to the left of me, with Jake on the other side of her. Miles is directly opposite me, with Alex and Amelia lining the rest of his side. Our waitress, Kelly, is here to gather our drink orders.

Without skipping a beat, I blurt my request. "A double Glenlivet 12 with a water back."

But the disappointed look Miles is shooting in my direction chides me to just order a Coke and be happy with it.

I hold up my forefinger to catch Kelly's attention, who's already moved onto Ma. "Actually, scratch that," I say. "Just a Coke for me."

She leaves our table once everyone submitted their requests. Alex initially started to order a bay breeze but felt the impact of Miles' right elbow straight into his ribcage, followed by what I think was whispered, "just order a fuckin' soda, will ya?"

With all the menus obscuring every nose at the table, I scan through the list of entrées. There are way too many listed. I think perhaps I'll just have Miles order for me, since he knows what I like. And he knows I hate making these decisions. God damn it! This reminds me of every time Julian ordered for me whenever I couldn't decide. But he and I didn't eat out very much after his diagnosis. Or if we did, it had been a place we frequented where I would order the same thing.

"Miles," I ask, my hand covering a dimple. "Just order for me, will ya?"

He nodded. "Too much to choose from?"

"A bit," I reply. "And nothing too spicy."

I know it must seem silly for a fifty-year-old man relying on someone else to order their meal. But I fucking detest too many options. If they only had four or five choices, I'd likely do it for myself. Kelly returned with our beverages a few minutes ago, but my desire for a scotch is boiling at the surface of my flesh. This Coke isn't quenching shit. Perhaps I can sneak away to the other room where I spotted the bar on our way to the table. If I tossed back even just one, it would tide my desire. When everyone has decided on their meal, Kelly returns to the table with a pen and pad in hand. She glances in my direction first when I point at Miles across the table.

"He'll have the carne asada," he instructs with direct eye contact. "And is your chimichurri terribly spicy?"

She shrugs. "It's not for me, and I don't handle spice too well."

Miles nods. "Alrighty, go ahead and put it on there."

Everyone else takes their turn ordering in a counterclockwise fashion then Kelly leaves at once. Ma sparks up a conversation with Miles about how long they have known me. With a chuckle, he begins telling her the story of our lives right from the very beginning at the apartment in NoHo. Alex left for the restroom a minute or two ago, so this is my opportunity to run off on a secret mission. I pat Ma on her shoulder, raising the messenger bag over my shoulder to excuse myself from the table.

"I'm gonna step outside for a smoke," I affirm, turning in the opposite direction to tread down the short footpath.

I'm pretty sure I heard Ma gasp and ask Miles if I really smoked. She can have an opinion, but either way, I give zero fucks. I love her, but she's not the one about to bury their husband. Or cremate him. Whatever. It's all the same goddamn thing. As my feet approach the lounge, I twist my head around in the same likeness of Mr. Bean up to his usual shenanigans. Better safe than sorry that nobody at the table saw me making a beeline for the bar. I'll pay for my drink and keep this to my own damn self.

A young boy barely appearing old enough to vote greets me once I advance to the counter. "What can I do ya for?" He asks.

I make note of his nametag, tapping my fingers against the surface, all the while clicking my thirsty tongue. "Double Glenlivet 12—neat," I command. "Please."

Jimmy turns his back to me, retrieving the bottle and reaches down below the bar for a clean glass. He may only look as old as the scotch he's pouring, but he can eyeball a double without the use of a jigger like a real pro. He slides the glass in my direction before taking the Mastercard between my fingers.

"Ya sure ya don't just wanna put it on your table's check?"

My ears perk at the notion while I shake my head resolutely. "No no, paying here is just fine," I assert, pulling the glass to my cracked lips.

The amber ethanol slithers past my throat almost too easily. I should sip it a few times, but the taste is something my sullied essence has craved all damn day. In one large gulp, I gently slam the glass back down. Jimmy lets out an impressive whistle.

"In my four years of being a bartender, I don't reckon I've ever seen anyone just down an entire double of single malt like that," he admits with admiration, handing me my credit card.

A belch escapes my mouth before I can cover it with a palm and an embarrassed look. "Sorry," I say. "It's been the Monday-est Thursday ever."

Jimmy slides a receipt and pen across the counter. "Today's only Tuesday, friend."

I shrug while lifting the pen. "Okay, Tuesday then."

The ink skips around every time I try to form a loop of the ‘y' in my name. Why can't places just use better pens for Christ's sake? After scribbling some lines on the bottom of the receipt, I can finish signing with ease. I push the pen and autographed paper back towards the boy while turning around to head out for a dessert—I mean a smoke. Why do I suddenly sound like Karen Walker from Will & Grace?

For being damn near seven-thirty, the heat and humidity hasn't let up one iota. In fact, it feels as if it's only worsened since we entered the restaurant. My back props against the brick wall as I lower my head with a smoke perched between my lips. The lighter flick engulfs an inch high flame when I take a long drag. I can feel the warming effects of alcohol tingle me all over, but this puppy here will make the rest of my evening tolerable for sure. Or at least until the end of supper.

Smoke discharges from my nostrils as I flick the ashes off to my side. Speaking of after dinner, Miles and I decided we'd go shopping at JCPenney. There's not a chance in Hell I can show up to my lover's funeral in a band t-shirt and jeans.

I take another few short drags from my smoke while looking for a container to dispose of the butt. Much like Denny's in Pennsylvania, there isn't one. So I scrape the fiery embers against the brick to toss it away from the sidewalk. I must hurry back, or they'll get suspicious of my extended absence. Especially Miles, he's one smart fucking cop. Inside, the pleasures of air conditioning bless my walk to the table. I pinch my shirt, fanning it against my chest to get the air moving underneath to cool down on the last few paces towards the group.

Ma harasses me as I slide the chair out to take a seat. "That must have been one big cigarette, Sweetheart."

I shrug, wiping my nicotine-stained fingers on my shorts. "Meh, I had a couple," I reply.

Liar liar, pants on fucking fire! I shake my head to ignore the admonishment coming from my conscience, all the while noticing that Alex still hasn't returned either. And wondering exactly how long I've been away. Or how many dirty little secrets Miles divulged to my mother in that timeframe. She sticks her nose out with a twisted head, sniffing at me like one of Miles' canines hunting down a kilo of cocaine. Her eyes squint as if she's caught me in my lie. Yet I don't know how.

"So," I blurt, rubbing my palms together. "You'd think two people leaving the table would've made the food come."

No sooner do I position the soda straw between my lips when I hear a loud sigh from behind. "Sorry about that everyone," Alex says, returning to his seat. "I sure lost track of time."

Miles slaps his palm into his husband's lap. "I was just telling Martha about Grayson and Julian's wedding in The Hamptons."

"You should show me pictures of it sometime," Ma insists, her hand taking grip of my wrist.

What I could use right now are some pictures of us. In fact, I remember archiving all our old photos in the cloud. Since our meals haven't arrived, I scoop my phone from the front pocket of the messenger bag, unlocking the screen. With a bit of luck, there might be decent enough cell coverage to access them. My lips fashion a grimace while raising the device in the air as if it will receive any better signal. An extra bar could make the difference accessing a folder labeled May 1998.

Several thumbnails of images populate as I set my phone on the table in front of us. I open the first one to get a larger view. It's a photo of us in our tuxedos as we schlepped the sandy aisle on our way to the stage. Just seeing the smiles on our faces as I continue thumbing through the photos, warrants a reenactment of the emotions I felt that day. And with it, comes a small trail of happy tears.

"Sweetheart don't get down," Ma says, taking the corner of her napkin to lap up my emotive display. "This was a happy moment."

I nod. "I know," I retort. "That's why I'm fuckin' bawling over here."

Her ears shoot straight out as if I'd said her blouse was uglier than sin. Whoops! Embarrassment lights up my face. She's not accustomed to the way we talk in New York. In fact, I doubt for a second that she's ever been to New York at all.

Ma shakes her head with much contention. "I'm not used to such a potty mouth on you," she replies.

Amelia pipes in from the other end of the table. "It's okay, Martha," she says. "I wasn't used to my brother swearing either."

Jake sits innocently in his seat as if he's never sworn a day in his life. All my bets are on him swearing his fair share while away at LSU with each of his frat brothers.

I grab Ma's shoulder, tilting my head. "I'm sorry, Ma," I reply with gritted teeth. "It'll take me a little bit to remember the cultural differences between the city and here."

Kelly and one of her fellow servers approach our table with giant trays. She sets an oval cast iron skillet in front of me, with an extra plate of toppings and a tortilla warmer. The sizzle coming from my strips of steak is a satisfying noise, because I know it should taste delicious. Dinner conversation seems to have taken a pause while everyone digs into their food like a hungry army. I slurp more Coke in between bites of my carne asada, gratefully admiring Miles for his excellent job ordering for me. It might be the first thing I've eaten today, but it's the best goddamn Tex-Mex I've ever had.

After dinner, Ma wanted to join us boys at JCPenney here in Franklinton. Since she rode with Jake from Felton, Alex insisted we'd drive her back home when we're done shopping. Little did I know one of the reasons she wanted to tag along, was because she still had something to say to me. It's when she had been interrupted by my brother back at the funeral home. Our group huddles outside the restaurant to wave Amelia off.

Before climbing into her car, Amelia leans in to give me another hug. She says that she'll be seeing me Friday at the church. When her Camry pulls away, I turn around to see Ma standing around the corner against the adjoining wall. She's waving at me to come over, so I excuse myself from the guys who appear ready to leave. I join her while retrieving a smoke from my bag with the universal expression— do you mind?

Ma gives me her tacit approval. Even though we've been apart for three decades, she's still my mother, and I can feel her judging me on the inside. I light the stick, taking a quick drag. Blowing the smoke away from us, I study her gaze and the tone of her expression. It seems to have made a one-eighty. Uh oh. Here we go!

"Grayson, my son," she says, resting her hand on my shoulder. "I haven't had a chance to tell you this in private."

My head tilts to the other shoulder while actively listening to what she has to say.

Her eyes begin glossing over with a show of emotion welling inside the cusps. "I never once thought ill of you for who you decided to love," she continues. "Your father is the prick who has the problem."

The fact that she's sharing her true feelings after all these years, means the absolute world. There is never a wrong time for a person to be told they're accepted for who they are. For how they were the second a doctor slapped them on the ass. In fact, I feel the cowardice of my inner demons diminishing at the very thought of another human being instilling their love—rather than misery. And cue the goddamn waterworks yet more.

Ma persists but uses her thumb to wipe away my emotive display of gladness. "In fact, I pretty much knew you were gay since you were knee high to a grasshopper."

I turn my head off to the side, blowing a cloud of smoke before curing the itch at the base of my nose. "How's that?"

She grins. "You waddled around the house in my nightgowns and fancy shoes at six or seven," she pauses, letting a short laugh escape her lips. "That was my first clue."

Speaking of long forgotten memories—or lack thereof—my mind flashes back to the moment I saw her standing in my doorway. That night watching my father's hands trying to beat every last ounce of fag from my disappointing existence.

"That night," I say. "My eighteenth birthday, did you not intervene because he would have hurt you in the process?"

Her affection turns dingey. "Oh honey, I was frozen with terror," she admits. "I had no idea if I had stepped in between, if it would've escalated his anger or not," she pauses yet again, rustling her fingers through my hair. "But I assure you that I was just as proud of every part of you that night as I am right now," she adds, a twinkle returning to her stare. "It had nothing to do with my safety, baby, only yours."

Ma finishes stroking the disheveled locks up and over my ear. The pride in her eyes is admirable, especially after we've gone all this time without speaking. Just as the smoke exits my nostrils, so do the fleeting thoughts of guilt. I suppose it's anybody's guess where my father is. And I'm not even sure I really want to know. As I let a draft of air down my pipes, stifling a yawn in the process, I can't help but ask anyways. He is, after all, the sole reason I avoided this place for so long.

"Ma," I ask, inhaling another short drag from the cigarette.

She returns my serious gaze in kind. "Yes, baby?"

On the exhale, I scratch another itch that's been pestering the base of my nose with my thumb's knuckle. "Where is— he? " I ask solemnly.

The pang in my gut couldn't be any more pronounced. Despite her eye-roll, I'm not feeling too comforted.

Ma lets out a sigh. "He's around Washington Parish—" she pauses to let out a cough, apparently from my cigarette.

Ugh. I must quit fucking smoking again. I can't do this to poor Ma.

"You were saying?" I continue the conversation.

She nods. "From what I hear, the bastard stays in his spider hole alone and unsociable—" she exaggerates with a sneer. "Apparently only leaves to replenish his beer and whiskey, or the occasional loaf of bread."

I should be cringing with the mental image of my father cut off from all of humanity, living a miserable life until the good Lord takes his sorry excuse for flesh. Yet all I can feel is satisfaction. How wonderful it is to hear how he's finally experiencing the consequences of his behaviors. From how Ma explains it, he's nothing more than a stain on society now. Tens of thousands of dollars in debt, with untreated cirrhosis, and a filthy shack he calls ‘home.'

Alex shouts from their rental, pointing at his watch. "Come on, we gotta hit the store before they close."

Ma tilts her head, both eyes gleaming with adoration—and probably joy. "Please stay in town for as long as possible," she pleads, wrapping her arms around my waist. "I have so much mothering to catch up on."

My cigarette is only halfway finished, but I take one last puff before tossing it. Ma's gentle strokes are soothing, as they always were before. I rub her back with my left hand, hearing her express her pride makes me feel like I should stay in town an extra week. Then in another instant, nothing but guilt swallows me whole. Perhaps this is yet another last-stitched tactic, the darkness drowning me, a casualty of impropriety manipulating me into fear and shame. As the adage goes, "hindsight is twenty-twenty." The only thing that should matter now, is we won't leave each other's lives a second time.