10. Marsh

TEN

Marsh

Here's the thing you need to know about Data: He can be rugged AF. Don't let the number-crunching, pencil-pushing, retentive-analing fool you. That's Data's Clark Kent side. He can go full Paul Bunyan like it's nobody's biznatch. (Preeti would call out my mixed pop culture metaphor, but I stand by it.)

He crams the shovel into the wall of packed snow blocking our front walkway. Since the driveway and road are a shoveling bridge too far, and he refuses to let the snow accumulate, he insists on clearing the front steps during a lull in the blizzard. A flush of red creeps up above his beard as his piercing eyes study the expanse of white. Each time he heaves the shovel into the snow, he lets out a grunt, as if he's a tennis player lobbing the ball back over the net. Or fucking me senseless. My groin shudders as I watch the process over and over again, finding a peacefulness to the repetitive nature.

In our relationship, Data was the handy one, the one who could repair things, fix things, paint things. I was the pretty face—although I once changed a light bulb he couldn't quite reach thankyouverymuch. Being the only child of a single mom made him the de facto man around the house at a young age. He regrouted their bathroom tile when he was in high school, and I only learned what regrouting was like five years ago. From him. He admitted to me years ago that when he realized he was gay, it motivated him to be more handy and to step up his DIY knowledge at home. Yet another item in the endless list of ways gay sons try to prove to their parents we're still men, all in the hopes that they'll still love us.

I watch Data furrow his brow with determination, wishing he could grip me like that shovel's handle. One of the many difficulties with ending a relationship is that your ex can still be drop-dead sexy after the breakup. Especially when he's being all butch.

"Why are you just standing around?" he asks.

"Don't you need a spotter?"

He cocks his head, and pulls his lips in.

"I can help," I say. "My lungs are fine."

"They're fine until you're huffing and puffing and calling out my name."

My tongue goes thick in my throat. Did he just …

"Calling out my name for help because you can't breathe." Right. The not-fun type of huffing and puffing. "People have heart attacks and die from shoveling snow."

"Old people." Before I remember that I'm closer to fifty than twenty, Data plunges his shovel into the snow.

"Since we're here to pack, maybe you should … " He waves his hand, trying to pull the answer out of me.

"Pack?"

Data gives me a round of applause. I give him the finger. A gentlemanly, we're-totally-platonic finger.

"Fine. But if you die of a heart attack, I'm taking back those Prada loafers I bought you for Hanukkah that you never wear." I shrug my shoulders and retreat into the warmth of the cabin, which isn't as warm as I'd like. This isn't the time for our HVAC system to crap out.

I put on an extra zip-up hoodie, grab a roll of tape and a box, and get to work. We're already behind schedule on packing, and me standing around lusting after my ex-boyfriend isn't helping. I have to keep my inappropriate thoughts at bay for the remainder of the weekend. I have to resist the ease of being around him. I made the hard choice to let him go, and I can't play with his heart by flirting with him. Maybe there's a chance we can be friends in the future, and for that to happen, I have to be on my best behavior this weekend. A total ex-boyfriend diplomat.

I march back outside and keep my eyes firmly fixed above his neckline. "We're running low on large boxes. Rather than save those boxes for packing heavy items, I'm going to use the medium boxes. Heavier items in smaller boxes will make them easier to transport, thus cutting down on loading up our cars on Monday. The larger boxes can be used for clothing and lightweight personal effects. You hadn't mapped out recommended box usage in our agenda, but I think this is the optimal course of action."

Data blinks at me a few times. "Uh, sure. Whatever you think best. As long as we're out of here by Sunday night or earlier if the streets get plowed."

His itching to leave sends tiny daggers diving into my heart.

"I'm going to tackle the living room. Even though it isn't as dense with items that need to be packed, it should provide a psychological boost to have our largest space all packed up, providing further momentum for the weekend."

"Okay … sounds good."

"Splendid, Marshall." I straighten my spine, turn on my heel, and return to the cabin.

Yep. A total baller of an ex-boyfriend diplomat.

To my surprise, packing up the living room does provide an emotional boost. It doesn't take long to fill boxes with books and our vast assortment of tchotchkes accrued over eight years and countless antiquing trips. I start with the paintings that we picked up on trips to galleries, where gallery owners with chunky glasses and pencil skirts smooth-talked us about the intelligence of investing in art. Data has a better eye than me, and he was better with investing, so he can keep these.

Sprinkled on the shelves are little wood carvings Data made during lazy afternoons. I would watch his hands move dexterously across the wood, shaping it and carving it just right. Little figurines of the both of us, a little model of The General Store, one of a deer that loves to frolic by our septic tank. Each one crafted by his fingers with crisp details, with the surface sanded to a flawless smoothness, like freshly poured cream.

Data's woodworking output slowed to a stop over the past few years. He said he was too busy, but he happily let his job consume him. A job that he rarely talked positively about, another life choice made in the hopes of making his mom proud.

On top of regular Jewish mom guilt, Data suffers from The Best Little Boy in the World syndrome that afflicts many gay men. It's an unquenchable drive to be successful, in the hopes that your professional and financial success will offset the shame your parents feel about having a son that takes it up the ass.

Taking a moment to appreciate the figurines up close, my mind is blown away by the sheer artistry. I can't believe I got to be with someone this talented.

Technically, these should go to him since he made them, but I slip the two figurines of us into my pocket. Little Marsh and Little Data. Together in some universe. If he wants them back, he can trade me the loafers.

My phone rings on the coffee table. DAD pops up on the screen. I put it on speaker so I can multitask and stay efficient, something Data would appreciate.

"Hello, Sir Dads a Lot! "

"Hey bud. How are things shakin'?" he says in his nasally New York accent that always sounds like home to me.

"I'm keeping busy. I, uh, have a show coming up next month." After leaving him in the lurch with the business, I don't have the heart to tell him I've failed at something else. And technically, I am helping with graphics for Preeti's show.

"Show? Is that what they're calling it nowadays?"

"Performances, I guess."

"Performances? What a weird thing to say. I hope you don't call it that in front of your patients."

I pinch the bridge of my nose as a familiar lump grows in my throat. "It's Marshall, Dad. The son who isn't a brilliant surgeon."

"Right, right. The reception isn't that good." He coughs, attempting to clear the confusion. "Where are you right now?"

"I'm at the cabin this weekend. But I can come back if you need." If Dad needed me, I'd trudge through a zillion feet of snow in a heartbeat.

"Say hi to Other Marshall for me." Hearing Dad's nickname for Data sends a flutter in my stomach. After months of never being sure how to differentiate us, the "Other Marshall" nickname stuck. I'm glad he hasn't lost all of his inside jokes.

"How did you know Other Marshall is here?"

"Why wouldn't he be? He's your companion."

"Uh, yeah. We're not together. Remember?"

"You never told me." Of course, I did.

"We broke up a few months ago." I feel my whole face crinkle into a cringe. It doesn't get easier having to jog Dad's memory, especially about the state of my pitiful romantic life.

"Oh. You did? That's too bad. But even when you think it's over, there's still hope. I remember when your mom and I once had a fight about … something. You and Albie were toddlers. Your mother bursts out of the house, gets in the car, and drives off." He chuckles to himself as he's telling the story, and I im agine his eyes getting brighter and that childlike smile peeking out. "You immediately started bawling. You were always more of a mommy's boy."

"That tracks." I'll gladly take a burn from Dad. It reminds me of all the times we joked together when I was growing up. My sense of humor and love of comedy came from him.

"I run out in my gatkes and chase her car down the street like a maniac. I'm screaming after her, and I can tell she's not going as fast as she could be. I think she enjoyed the spectacle."

I'm losing it thinking of Dad in his underwear running down our street, his gut flapping side to side. Our neighbors probably rolled their eyes regretting letting Jews move in.

"Did she stop?" I ask Dad. "How far down did you chase her?"

"She stopped at the stop sign, but then she turned right. I think if she had turned left, we would've been in real trouble. I run after her, and then I finally yell out as loud as I can … "

"Yeah?"

"I yell out … " He says again, this time confused. I can hear the struggle in his voice. "I yell out … "

"Miriam?" I say softly.

"Goddamnit!" he snaps. "I know her name! I don't need your help." His tone changes on a dime, his words cloaked in a helpless anger.

I should be used to this by now. I'm not.

"I scream out ‘Miriam' and she stops the car," Dad says, finishing the story out of obligation rather than enthusiasm. "Couples fight. They get back together."

"Yeah. Well, Marshall has already seen me in my gatkes, so we're halfway there." I cling to humor like it's a life preserver. It's best not to dwell on things we can't change. "What's up with you?"

"Did you know your brother has been talking to people about buying Harmony Pianos? "

I clamp my eyes shut. Fucking Albie. He never had any patience.

"He mentioned it to me." I pace in the tight quarters, rubbing my forehead. "He has a friend who does mergers and acquisitions, and he found a potential buyer for the company."

"I can't believe he's been talking to people about selling," Dad says, horrified. "Did you know about this?"

"We … discussed it." Even as a full-grown adult, I can't convincingly lie to my dad. Because even with Alzheimer's, he'll know. "Albie jumped the gun in telling you."

Once Albie showed an aptitude for science, Mom and Dad steered him toward medicine. He doesn't have the same connection to Harmony Pianos. He only sees it as a burden, not a legacy.

"Why would I sell the company? I built this company from nothing, Albie!"

"It's … Marsh, Dad."

"That's what I meant. Albie shouldn't be talking to anyone about this."

"He was trying to help."

"I don't need help. We're in contract with a hotel group to provide pianos for their lobbies."

"That deal happened five years ago." My stomach churns with anger and hurt and sadness that I can't ever let come to the surface. He can fall apart, but I have to stay strong.

"They want more. They're expanding." Desperation hitches in his voice. "So we're going to sell the business to some private equity jerkoffs who are going to strip it for parts?"

That might be the most lucid thing Dad has said so far and one of my big hesitations about the deal.

"You can finally take it easy."

"I don't want to take it easy," he barks.

"I've tried talking to you about this. You can't … running the business is becoming too much for you. You rejected ca ndidates to take over the company. Now would be a good time to pass Harmony Pianos off." My heart thumps in my chest with each word. I'm a tightrope walker taking each step carefully.

"I don't want outside candidates!" He exhales a voluminous sigh that crackles in the phone. "Harmony Pianos is supposed to stay in the family. It's supposed to keep that personal touch with its craftsmanship and its customer service. My son was all set to take over. He went to business school. He worked alongside me for years learning every inch of the business. And right when I was about to hand over the reins, he quits! He throws it all away because he wants to be a comedian." Comedian comes out with a mix of confusion and disdain. A shiver crawls up my spine. "Maybe it's dumb, Ira, but I'm still holding out hope that he'll come back. Working side-by-side with Marshall was my dream. I have to tell you, it was one of the best times in my life."

Wetness dots the corners of my eyes. I don't have the heart to tell him I'm not his lawyer. I barely have breath in my lungs to respond.

"Ira, you still there?"

"Yeah. Uh, we can discuss later." Tears pool in my eyes, and I use superhuman strength to hold them back.

"You sound funny."

"I'm fine. My bagel went down the wrong pipe. I have to meet with a client, Joe. Talk to you soon."

I hang up and press the phone hard against my chest, feeling so alone it hurts to breathe. Even the wittiest humor can't ease the depth of certain pains.

And then, a hand on my shoulder. Tentative, but warm. Pulling me out of this dark hole.

"I'm sorry." Data's voice is softer than it's been all day.

All I want to do is follow his hand to his arm, to his chest, let him wrap his arms around me in a comforting Data cocoon. Breathe in his scent, let his support blanket me. But an unexpected rush of embarrassment comes over me, a white-hot flame singeing my chest.

"Can you, uh, chop us some wood? I'd help, but … " I pound my chest, " … bum lungs and all." I wipe the tears from my eyes so fast it's like they were never there. "It's still cold in here. Either the heater is busted or Elsa really went for it when she ‘Let It Go.'" I pull the corner of my lips into a smile, each joke another rung in the ladder up to the light.

"Marsh." He squeezes my shoulder.

I pat his hand, then in the gentlest way possible, push it off. "I'm good." I sniffle quickly. "At least I don't have to feel bad about forgetting to send him a birthday card anymore."

I grab my coat from the couch and head outside. The crisp air helps calm me.

Falling apart is something you do in front of boyfriends. Not acquaintances. Not diplomats. Not people whose hearts you've broken and whose trust you've lost.