In Mike We Trust (3 page)

“Hold on. Your uncle
gambles
for a living?”

“That's what he said.”

“And his mom—your grandmother—doesn't have a problem with that?”

“I don't think so. She might not even know about it, though.”

“Why can't I have parents like that? I mean, look at me. I've got talent, I've got genius, and all my parents do is tell me I'll starve if I pursue a life as a photographer. They're shelling out for my idiot brother to major in failing at VCU, and they're smothering my creative aspirations!”

“I was talking about my uncle,” he reminded her.

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Anyway, it looks like he's going to be staying with us for a while.”

“Do you think he's going to run a poker game out of your apartment?”

“The spare room's the size of a closet.”

“I was kidding. You never know, though—he might get the itch and want to stir up a little action. If you smell cigar smoke and hear ‘Come to Papa!' you'll know.”

“Freak,” he said.

“
You're
the freak. You get to kiss any part of Sufjan, and you pick his eyes? Please.”

“You didn't say anything about kissing! You just asked what my favorite part was. It doesn't make any difference anyway. He's straight, and I'm…”

“Crooked?”

“Chained up. Censored. Stifled.”

“Speaking of which.” Lisa propped herself up on an elbow to look at him, her thin eyebrows raised. “Any new developments on the Issue?”

He groaned. “No. Project Garth is still dead in the water.”

“How long has it been now? Two months?”

“Three months, one week, five days,” he muttered. “And counting.”

 

His mom was the second person he'd come out to, after things had gone so smoothly with Lisa. He didn't like hiding what was beginning to feel like such a large part of
himself from her. In fact,
not
telling her, he decided, was like watering the seed of a beanstalk—one that would grow fat and tall, given the chance, and one he might eventually use to climb away from her, emotionally. He didn't want that. At this point, they only had each other.

He planned out what he would say, and he ran through possible reactions in his head. He couldn't picture her screaming, “No, no, no!” any more than he could picture her throwing her arms around him and exclaiming, “How wonderful!” Just thinking about it was tiring.

He finally eased them into the topic one night during dinner. He was careful to say first that he had something very important to tell her. He clarified that nothing was
wrong
, that everything was
fine
. Then he made his announcement.

Just two words, but still. Two phenomenally important words, when you stuck them together.

She, the Queen of Trepidation, remained silent.

“It's not a phase, and it's not some confusion on my part,” he said, the speech practically scripted because he'd rehearsed it so much. “I'm not still figuring it out; I
know
it. It's what I am, and I've been wanting to tell you.”

“Garth,” she finally said, frowning down at her plate. She drew in a breath, held it a moment, then
exhaled and looked him in the eye. “Let's talk about this later, okay?”

For all the possible reactions he'd run through his mind, he hadn't expected that one.

“Can you do me that favor?” she asked. “Can we just put this topic on hold?”

“Sure,” he muttered, wondering exactly what she meant by “on hold.”

Thus commenced the waiting. Hours of it. Then days. A long, awkward week that bled into another.

When he brought it up again, ten days later—over breakfast this time (he thought it might be a better strategy to catch her when she wasn't exhausted from a day's work)—she came back with the same response: “We agreed to put that topic on hold.”

“But what does that mean? On hold till when?”

“Until you're older and more capable of dealing with it. Until you're seventeen—or even eighteen. Between then and now, I think it's best to just shelve the issue.”

“
Shelve
it?” he asked, trying to control his tone. “How?”

“By not doing anything about it. By not
telling
anyone.”

“I just told you.”

“Outside the family,” she clarified. “Please, Garth.
I've got nothing against gay people. You know me. But the world is a dangerous place.”

“Is it because you think I couldn't defend myself, if someone tried to gay-bash me?” he asked.

He could tell by her expression that that was exactly what it was—or at least part of it (though, truth be told, she'd probably be just as worried about him if he were six feet two). She fumbled for a moment, searching for words, then said, “The fact is, there are many deceitful, harmful people out there, and you never know who you're getting involved with when you start trusting them. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you. I couldn't. It would kill me.”

“This isn't fair,” he said. “You're making it all about you.”

“The
world
isn't fair, Garth. That's why we have to make careful, sensible decisions—even if they aren't ideal. Promise me you'll keep this private until you're older and more equipped to take care of yourself.”

There was no changing her mind, he knew. And there was no telling her now that he'd already come out to Lisa. “Fine,” he said, wondering whether or not he'd be able to keep such a huge promise.

The next time he saw Lisa was at Bone Sweet Bone, the dog rescue shelter where they both volunteered on Wednesday afternoons. He recounted the whole
frustrating conversation and, with utter embarrassment, asked her not to tell anyone else and to pretend she herself didn't know, if anyone asked.

“This is major,” she said, wiping out a cage. “I mean, how are you going to have any gay friends? Much less a boyfriend?”

“I know, I know.” He hoisted a bag of dog food down from a shelf. When it hit the floor, half the dogs started whimpering. One of them let out a high-pitched bark. “
Quiet,
” he told the dog, “or you won't get lunch.”

“Nice vet you're going to make.”

“He knows I'm kidding. Don't you…” He squinted at the index card taped to the cage, which bore the temporary name that Ms. Kessler, the shelter's owner, had given the dog, “…Toodles. Anyway, I keep hoping she'll come around, once she's had time to digest it. But I'm not crossing my fingers.”

“You should call ROSMY.”

“Who?”

“It's not a who; it's a hotline. The Richmond Organization for Sexual Minority Youth. Friends of mine have used them before and said they were really helpful.”

“What do they do, teach you how to be gay?”

“They counsel. They offer advice.”

He cut the string on the dog food bag and tore it
open. “I want the program that fast-tracks me to eighteen, so I can start being myself.”

“You know,” she said, “you could call anonymously, make up a name. You could be…Todd.”

“Or Toodles.”

“‘Hello, ROSMY? This is Toodles J. Homosex on the line, and I have a few questions for you.'”

“Shut up!” He laughed and threw a nugget of dog food at her.

“Anyway. There it is. Consider it. Anonymity can be a wonderful thing.”

He pondered the idea for another few days. Then, while his mom was at work, he looked up the number and dialed it from the wall phone in the kitchen.

A man answered, identifying himself as a counselor. He was halfway through asking how he could help when Garth hung up on him.

Wimp
, he thought.
What's the big deal?
It was as if he'd been infected with his mom's worries, her panic, her fear. The idea infuriated him, so he picked up the phone and dialed again.

The same voice answered, the same greeting.

“Hi, um, my name is…Greg? And I'm just wondering if I can get some advice.” There was a tremble in his voice he couldn't suppress. He felt as if he'd just realized he was gay five minutes ago.

But as the person on the other end of the line—calmly, reassuringly—began asking him a few questions and then actually
listened
to what he had to say, he realized that talking to a stranger had extreme benefits. Lisa was right: anonymity
was
a wonderful thing. He told the counselor he was gay; he told him about Lisa; he told him about coming out to his mom, and her reaction. Then it dawned on him that in order for any of this to make sense, he would have to talk about his dad. He did. And he surprised himself by not crying. Halfway through his monologue, he noticed that the tremble was gone from his voice. He didn't even feel nervous anymore.

“So, Greg,” the man said—and like some soothing, otherworldly entity, he began to offer small bits of advice. A few questions, too, but mostly advice. Suggestions. Options. Nothing drastic and nothing derogatory about his mom and her position. The organization held in-person counseling sessions, the man explained. “Greg” could come in with his mom and speak with someone who could help them understand each other's points of view more clearly. Did he think his mom would be willing to come in with him for an appointment?

“I doubt it,” Garth said. “But I can ask.”

He hung up feeling a few notches better.

But his mom's reaction to the news that he'd called was worse than ever. She was practically furious. “If you respect me,” she said, “you'll stick to your promise.”

If he
respected
her? Of course he respected her. But did she respect him and who he was becoming? Was she even capable of it, buried under so many blankets of fear and distress? It seemed he could only reach a certain part of her anymore. That basic, functioning-human part:
Let's eat breakfast, See you tonight, What's for dinner? Love you, Sleep well.
Mourning and missing his dad had dominated their lives since the accident; that made sense to him. But did that mean they had to just shut down in their current state?

 

Lisa was now hanging off the bed, one of her long, sinewy arms stretching to her desk so she could fiddle with her iTunes. Sufjan segued into Belle and Sebastian.

“Any chance this uncle of yours is a member of The Big Duh society?” she asked.

“God, wouldn't
that
flip my mom out? I don't think he is, though. I mean, he's not married, but he said he was engaged once and he definitely gives off a straight…vibe.”

“Too bad. It might have been a chance to shake things up. You know—make her face Project Garth.”

Garth rolled over onto his stomach and folded his
hands beneath his chin. “She faces it every time she looks at me,” he said. “Only she doesn't see it.”

His mom had apparently endured all the shaking up that she could handle for a while. She clearly didn't need him rocking the boat.

Bad metaphor, he thought.

Three months. One week. Five days.

And counting.

 

Mike made Garth's mom choose the restaurant for dinner that night. She tried to get away with picking a few less-expensive places that were nearby, but Mike looked up the reviews on Garth's computer, and told her she had to aim higher. Finally, she picked The Tobacco Company, a restaurant in an old tobacco warehouse in Shockoe Bottom that she assured him was “fancy.” “We're there,” Mike said.

Garth's mom put on a dress and pinned her hair up in a way that made her look younger and much less tired (though that might have been due to the makeup). Mike wore a white button-down shirt and slacks, a striped tie, and a slightly rumpled blazer. “Oh, go put on a tie,” Garth's mom said when Garth emerged from his room in a dress shirt and trousers.

“It's just dinner,” he protested.

She pointed to the back of the apartment. He did an
about-face and returned to his room.

He only owned two ties. One had been a gift from Lisa and had Charlie Chaplin on it; he doubted his mom would approve. The other was deep blue and speckled with tiny red dots. He drooped it around his neck and stood in front of the mirror trying over and over again to get the knot right, but his dad had always been the one to tie his tie for him. He'd stand behind him in front of the mirror and look at Garth's face in the reflection, his hands moving effortlessly while he talked about something else. Who had tied Garth's tie for the funeral? A neighbor? He couldn't remember.

“You about ready?” Mike asked, peering through the open door.

“No,” Garth said. “I don't think I'll ever know how to work one of these stupid things.”

Mike walked into the room and stepped up behind him. He put his arms around Garth's shoulders, taking hold of both ends of the tie. Looking Garth's reflection in the eye, he said, “Watch my hands and learn.” The hands started swimming. “I didn't think I'd ever understand poker the first time I walked into a casino. That was on a cruise ship, of all places. First and last cruise I ever went on. Just a big, floating hotel. I was playing this sunburned grill salesman from Saint Claire who wouldn't shut up about grills. I just kept looking
at my cards and thinking, Some of these look pretty good together. I'll stick with them. Then I drew the two of clubs and the six of diamonds, and that looked like a nice collection, so while he yammered on, I just sat tight. When the time came, the dealer had two pair and the grill salesman got this big, cheesy grin on his face and showed us a straight. ‘Whatcha got?' he asked, and I laid down my cards. And you know what?”

He removed his hands. The knot was clean, the length perfect—just long enough to cover Garth's belt buckle.

“I learned that day that a full house beats a straight,” Mike said to his reflection, smiling. “Look at you. A ladies' man if I ever saw one.”