Chapter 28
28
ALEX
I t's always been compulsory to be around on Friday evening for Shabbat dinner in our house and Nana pats my arm as I place a gin and tonic in front of her. "You're a good grandson, Alex."
I grin at her. "And you're the best grandma."
Tutting, she flaps her hand at me.
"Who's looking after the terrors today?" I ask.
She grimaces. "Anna is taking Betsy to the vet's."
"Oh no, Nana. Is she okay?"
"Betsy's fine. I think she might have got something in her paw; she was limping yesterday."
I press my hand to my chest. "What would I do if something happened to her? She's my favorite attack dog."
"Oh, she's a sweetie."
"You didn't think that when she destroyed your best sweater."
"Alex, come and take the chicken to the table, please!" my mom shouts.
Making a face at Nana, I head into the flurry that is my four elder sisters with my mom in the kitchen. A beautifully braided challah sits on the bench. Rachel is stirring the gravy, Hannah is transferring potato to a serving dish, and Becs is hammering a masher through something in a pan. Cara is scowling at her mobile phone. My mom, her face flushed from cooking, is frowning as she strains greens through a sieve. She and Nana have never had an easy relationship. Rumor has it that Nana resisted her wedding to my father because she thought my dad could do better, and my mom has never got over the sting of this. And I get it, when Nana gets hold of something, she's like a dog with a bone. I'm lucky I've never fallen out of favor with her, no matter what I do.
My sisters all feel a different kind of family pressure, though, that of being judged and found wanting. If my father had his way, we would all be working in finance. And in our own ways, we're all trying to escape the narrow career options we were forced into. Cara moved out of home a couple of years ago and has managed to shift into a marketing job from the accounting role she once had. She hasn't told my parents. Hannah teaches at the local school but would like to be an artist, not a profession that Mom and Dad consider a worthwhile occupation. Rachel is training to be a lawyer. Becs is closest to me in age, angry because she never performed well at school, and is secretly running a craft business on Instagram under an assumed name. Our father also forced her into being an accountant, but she only just scraped through her exams and hates working with numbers. It's depressing that I'm still sitting at that research desk. But maybe I have also tried to keep the peace for too long, to meet all the expectations.
After we've sat down and Dad has said the blessing over the bread, we all tuck in. Mom starts asking us about our work, and my father sits at the head of the table—curly hair like a halo around his bald head which gleams in the overhead light—as he waits for her to serve him. Can he not help himself for once in his life?
"So have your family met this nice young friend of yours?" Nana asks, lifting a forkful of potatoes to her mouth with a shaking hand.
And I raise my head from the tureen where I'm spooning honey-roasted carrots onto my plate, stomach churning. She's not really going to talk about this, is she?
"Which one, Nana?" I say, as I swallow down a sawdusty throat.
"Des, that lovely guy you brought to meet me?"
Thank God. Thank God she didn't say any more. Maybe she didn't pick up on the fact that Des is as gay as they come. God bless my sheltered grandma—it wouldn't even occur to her. My mother turns and smiles.
"Bubbe has met a friend of yours that we haven't?"
The implication is clear here: This person is not from the synagogue. You have friends who aren't Jewish, Alex?
"Yes, yes." Nana says, nodding. "So handsome he was, too … reminded me of my Nate."
I can almost detect Mom's eye roll. She hates all the stories of the wonderful Nate, chiefly because Dad is an asshole who rules the entire household with an iron fist, and she thinks Nana is responsible.
"Yeah, I'm sure he's got women falling all over him, just like Grandpa." I wink at her, and the hot sweat dissipates as fast as it came.
She frowns at me. "But I thought he was gay?" she says.
The whole table goes silent. Mom is staring at me. Dad puts down his cutlery and wipes his mouth with his napkin. Nana's sharp eyes meet mine over the table.
Does she know what she just said? She must . Fuucck .
Shrugging my shoulders as nonchalantly as I can, I say, "Maybe he is. I can't say we've ever had that discussion. A lot of gay people work in the city."
Dad clears his throat. "Did you meet this friend through your job?"
Oh God.
Let's keep this as close to the truth as possible. A glimmer of hope catches me by the throat. Perhaps I can move this conversation on and avoid this whole confrontation.
"Actually, I've been doing some research into technology businesses for the senior investment board. He's second in command in a tech startup and is giving me lots of information on companies, trends, that kind of thing."
Mom places a forkful of food in her mouth, lips hardly moving, eyes never wavering from my face. Am I getting away with this? I must look as guilty as sin.
Nana's eyes are narrowed on me. What's her game?
Hannah and Becs are both staring at me as Rachel forks a potato into her mouth and chews, not meeting my gaze. The I-told-you-so vibes seep across the table.
"I thought you were better friends than that," Nana mutters, carefully cutting up a piece of steak. "I knew he was gay the moment I clapped eyes on him."
"Nana!" I say.
A dull red color is building in my father's face. My mom stares unseeing at the tablecloth.
Oh God.
Oh God.
I look at my father and hold up a hand. "What? I think it's rude to presume someone's sexuality in this day and age," I say. It's the best I can come up with.
"What's going on with this boy?" my father thunders.
We can all see the storm coming. Hannah, God love her, gets up and grabs her plate and Rachel's and disappears into the kitchen.
I raise my hands. "Nothing! He's a friend. Jesus."
My father's lip curls. Nana carries on eating her meal as Mom gazes down at her lap. Becca stands up and heads out into the kitchen, too, closely followed by Rachel—the traitors.
"We're not having a repeat of what happened last year," my father barks.
My mother nods like a nodding dog.
"That whole messed-up business with that … that …"
"Tom … your nephew," I say.
Shame and anger bubble inside me. How happy have I been since I found Des? For the first time, I've managed to escape the oppression of this family and this house. Tom was treated appallingly, and they think that's fair? Although Tom blames me for everything that happened to him, his parents were the ones who disinherited him and he had no way to fight it. It's so unjust. But he wasn't the only one in that relationship—he made the first move, he confessed his sexuality to me, he kissed me, but I responded—I still bear some responsibility here: to him, to Des.
"So what if I were gay?" I say.
My father's eyes jerk up to mine, face getting ever redder.
"What did you say?" he hisses.
"There is nothing wrong with being gay."
His hand shoots out and he slaps me across the face. A sting blooms over my cheek.
"Don't you dare say things like that in my house," he shouts.
Jesus, he hit me . As I put my hand on my aching face, my eyes start to water. He would lose his temper and sometimes lash out at us when we were younger, but he hasn't done it in such a long time. Dad's fists are clenched on the table, his skin all blotchy now, a muscle pulsing in his temple.
Mom and Nana are staring at him.
"You shouldn't strike the boy, Sebastian," Nana says quietly.
Boy, she called me. The boy. Not Alex. And that's it? No one has shot out of their chair in outrage to come to my defense, or Jesus , shouted at him for being the worst parent in the world? Does anyone in this family consider me at all? Suddenly I understand all Des's propensity for drama. Sometimes it's absolutely the correct response.
"None of you give a shit about me, do you?" I say, low and angry. "You don't care who I am, what I want. It's all fine if I keep to your agenda, but when I don't …" Leaning over the tabletop, I get right into my father's face. "You always think you can force us to conform with your fists. Well, all that happens is the people you hit hate you. Do you think any of us love you after you lashed out at us when we were younger? Do you think any of us are going to listen to what you say, ever again?" I take my napkin off my knee and fling it on the table, from where it slips onto the floor.
"Now, Alex—" Mom starts.
I glower at her. "And you! He's bullied you all his life. You can't even step up for your own son? Or any of us?" I sweep my hand toward the kitchen. "And you"—I point at Nana—"let him get away with it all." I stare at my father. "You're a spoiled brat," I say as his face goes puce.
"You arrogant little shit," my dad finally says, his hand twitching where it's resting on the table.
"Are you going to hit me again? Or are you thinking twice about it because I might come back at you this time? Or maybe call the police to report an assault?" Mom presses her hand to her throat. "How would that appear to the neighbors, in your carefully curated life?"
I stand up. "I'm sure you don't give a damn, but that's the last you'll be seeing of me. No one in their right mind stays in a house where the only other male in it answers every problem with his fists."
And I walk out the door.