Gingerbread (14 page)

"So, ya wanna grabba slice, right?" he asked. "Ya wanna know the best pizza place in the projects up the street, right?"

I said, "I want to meet your aunt, Miss Loretta."

"Smart girl," he said. "C'mon in."

The restaurant was in the ground level space under-

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neath the stoop. It had red gingham curtains hanging on the windows, and pretty lace tablecloths on the small number of tables. For a little nook of a place uptown with not that much room, it was packed with people. I went to the counter where a slender black lady with salt-and-pepper hair was manning the register.

Luis said, "Hey, Aunt L, this is Frank's...you know."

Miss L looked me up and down. "You're not kidding!" she said. "It's nice to meet you, Cyd Charisse," she said.

I got a sudden case of shy and I mumbled, "Thank you, you too." From inside the designer handbag, Gingerbread was squirming and kicking. I took Gingerbread out of the bag and said, "This is Gingerbread and she was named after the gingerbread you had made that Frank was carrying one time when I met Frank when I was little."

Miss L did not ask how old was I to be carrying a doll. She extended her hand to Gingerbread's. "Nice to meet you, Gingerbread," she said. "I've never met a namesake of my cooking before. I'm honored."

Gingerbread beamed. She's a sweet little rag doll not used to getting such a reception from anyone other than me.

Miss Loretta said, "I'm knowing your father many years. Known him since we're both children, that's how far back we go." How relieved was I that she dispensed with the niece/goddaughter/whatever business.

I said, "Was he always such a dawg?"

She laughed and said, "Pretty much. It's not funny, I know, but it's the truth. Lord, you are the image of him! That must make your momma crazy!"

I said, "You reap what you sow."

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Miss Loretta raised her eyebrow at me. "Well, we all make our choices, and our mistakes. And then we learn and we grow and we move on."

Interesting.

Miss Loretta pointed to an empty shelf over one of the windows. "See that empty space there? My favorite doll from when I was a girl sat there until recently. Her name was Flowers and she was given to me by an aunt from Jamaica. Flowers was as black as night and wore a turban on her head and I swear to you, she knew when I was even thinking about being naughty."

Gingerbread gave me a look like, Hmph.

"One of my baby granddaughters took to Flowers about a year ago, and now Flowers is living with her. So there's an empty space just waiting for the right doll, should you ever feel like you and Gingerbread are ready to move on."

I was a little taken aback but Gingerbread seemed intrigued by the possibility. I said, "I have to head down to the Village to Danny and Aaron's. But we will think about it. Thank you, Miss Loretta."

Miss Loretta took a whole homemade gingerbread out of the bakery case and wrapped it up for me. She said, "You tell my Danny he can make cakes pretty enough to be in pictures, but he'll never make gingerbread as good as mine!" She smiled and Gingerbread and I left, content.

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Thirty-two

When I arrived
later that afternoon at the Village Idiots after the lunch crowd had left, Danny and Aaron were oblivious to my arrival in the deserted cafe. They were on the floor making out, the slow, sweet, soul-kissing kind. Sigh. I remember.

I would like to think that if Shrimp and I had stayed together that ten years down the road we would still be into each other like Danny and Aaron are.

The interesting thing about Danny and Aaron is that they are not greedy about their love; they manage to find pockets of together time at the most unexpected moments. They don't need to be touchy-feely PDA all the time to prove how devoted they are. They just are.

I announced, "Excuse me, but I could be like a robber or something."

They unlocked lips. Aaron rolled off Danny, stood up, and said, "Hey, will you help me set up the bandstand for tonight?"

"Righty-o!" I said. Aaron belongs to this laid-back band called My Dead Gay Son that is made up of all these professional guys, straight and gay, whom they've known since college, who jam together whenever they have the time and inclination, with no particular agenda, musically or otherwise. The band is named after this line from some '80s movie that Danny and Aaron have been obsessed with since high school. The line "I love my dead gay son!" is said

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by this dad at his football hero son's funeral. The football hero, who is totally a homophobic jerk, is found murdered in a compromising position with another football player. I said that doesn't sound like a very funny movie to me and Danny said, don't take everything so literally, Cyd Charisse. To Danny and Aaron, the father's line from the movie reminds them of how their own dads reacted about their relationship: sort of overly cool and tolerant, masking a lot of confusion and discomfort. Danny and Aaron are always teasing each other, saying "I love my dead gay son!" and bursting into crocodile tears, and then tearing up laughing.

As Aaron and I sat on our knees putting together the bandstand, my brother/baker/genius man went into the kitchen to crumble a section of Miss Loretta's gingerbread into pieces and sprinkle the crumbs over some of that night's cakes. Aaron said, "He's going to miss you so much when you go back to San Francisco. We have loved having you here."

I didn't have many days left in Manhattan. It felt like I had been here a long, long time. I was actually looking forward to going home, much as I adored Danny and Aaron. I wondered if I had grown and changed during my time here--how could I know if there were no physical signs? I knew that the thought of living in Nancy's House Beautiful did not tweak me so much, that I should probably take Danny's advice and try to make actual friends at school and not have my only female friend be a cool chick in a nursing home, and that Shrimp and I were not finished--not by a long shot. In fact, to my mind, maybe I wanted to figure out a way to start fresh. Maybe that's how I knew I had changed, at least a little. I knew if I wanted to try with

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Shrimp again, I wanted to try not as the same person I had been the first time around: needy, always looking over my shoulder, distrustful of a good thing.

I answered Aaron. "Danny's just probably glad I'm not a big bleh like his other sister."

"Lisbeth's not so bad," Aaron defended. "She's just a tough nut to crack."

"You've got the nut part right."

Later that night, when My Dead Gay Son was warbling through an old Otis Redding tune and I was foaming a cappuccino for a customer, I felt Danny's arms reach under my arms to give me a hug from behind. I am not an affectionate type of person but I did close my eyes for a sec to savor the moment as Danny nuzzled his head into my neck and whispered, "I'm so glad you came here, CC." For once, I felt totally at ease in time and space, grateful that I could have a relationship with a guy that was safe and tender, even if he was my brother and I had only known him a couple weeks.

Our moment was interrupted when we looked up to see Frank real-dad standing before us at the espresso machine. Danny did not untangle his octopus arms from around me, he just said, '"Sup, Pops?"

Frank blushed a little, I guess from Danny's and my affection. He hadn't spent any time with the two of us together and so he didn't know that we had grown tight in the shifts we had spent together nearly every day when Frank was at work or off gallivanting with clients or women or whomever, but in general not spending time with me when I had specifically come to get to know him.

"Well, hello," he said, somewhat awkwardly. "I came down to see if I could steal Cyd Charisse away for dinner.

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She's spent so much of her time here I've hardly had a chance to see her."

Danny kicked me under the counter so I would not say something rude back, as I was about to. Something about being a hypocrite.

"She'd love to!" Danny shouted over the music.

Now I kicked him under the counter.

I said, "I ate already."

Danny said, "Why don't you two go sit down and I'll bring you some dessert?"

"That will be fine, son," Frank said, and I suppressed a giggle from how formal he was.

Danny brought over a piece of perfect pound cake with the gingerbread sprinkles and whipped cream on top. Just one piece, so Frank and I would have to share, and it was amazing-scrumptious, even sharing. Frank drank from a formal tea set and I took a walk on the wild side: a late-night double shot, fully caffeinated café au lait.

My Dead Gay Son was rifflng on Jazz standards, so it was easier to hear than when the band had been playing Sex Pistols covers. Frank said, before a sip of herbal tea, "Cyd Charisse, you are a lovely girl. A little, er, spunky, but a lovely girl. I want you to know that. Your mother and Sid did a beautiful job."

"They might contest that observation, Frank. But thanks." It wasn't much from him, but it was something. Actually, it felt really, really, really good to hear him say those words, even if I wasn't going to let him know it, not after he'd called me "spunky."

"You understand why I had to make the choices I did?" he asked.

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"Yah," I said, but not too convincingly.

Frank pulled his wallet out and reached into the picture section. Underneath a class photo of lisBETH circa fifth grade, he pulled out a picture of Nancy, her blonde hair pulled back by a ribbon, wearing a hospital gown and holding me the day I was born. Her face was so happy and young and lovely, I almost didn't recognize her. Underneath that picture, he pulled out a small photo of me from kindergarten, the year we moved to San Francisco. My black hair was long even then, with ponytail curls, and my eyelashes thick, black, and curly over my almond eyes. I wasn't smiling, but I never smile for pictures. I remember I was so happy the day that picture was taken because Sid-dad had come to school to flip burgers for the school's Halloween barbecue that afternoon and I had been so proud to have an actual dad to show off at school. I had loved that day.

It was good to know that for all the years I had been wondering about Frank, longing to know him, at least a small piece of his heart had been holding on to me as well. I thought about what Miss Loretta had said about growing up and moving on, learning from mistakes. I asked Frank, "If you had to do it all over again, would you?"

Frank said, "Probably. I loved your mother very much."

For Nancy's sake, I was glad he said those words, even though I thought he was paying lip service to the Right Thing to Say to Your Love Child. Nancy had been young and beautiful, he had been older and on the make. Shit happens. I don't think someone like Frank is actually capable of loving another person enough to make sacrifices and tough choices that would make him look bad.

Frank added, "But I was not strong enough to do what

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was necessary to allow us to be a family. It took your dad coming along to make the hard choices." I felt a small sliver of appreciation seeping in for Frank's unpretty self-realization.

I told Frank, "Did you ever think of me, like on my birthdays?"

"The day hasn't gone by since you were born that I haven't thought of you," he said. 'And when you're ready for college, you'll find a trust fund I set up for you, to which I contributed money every year on your birthday, for your future."

"I don't need money," I said. I hate when adults revert to that topic. It's so ugly. "And for your information, maybe it would have been a lot nicer if you had, like, sent a card or something every year, so that I would have known you were thinking about me."

Frank said, "Your mother and I agreed it would be in your best interest for us to have no contact, to save you the confusion of two fathers, one of whom could not participate in your upbringing."

"Nice of you guys to make these decisions for me."

"You were a child, you couldn't have known what to do. We agreed it was best to wait until you were older, until you wanted the connection, could understand it."

That answer was so lame and unsatisfactory, however true it was. I told Frank, "I don't think I'm planning on going to college. Maybe you could just give the money to Danny and Aaron. They can barely keep this business alive what with the cost of doing business in this neighborhood."

"It's your money to do with as you please, when you are of legal age to assume the trust."

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This was not a scene that was going to end in octopus hugs, but I did allow, "What I needed was time, Frank. And I got it, and I'm glad for it. I needed to know you. I don't have to wonder 'what if anymore. I know."

Frank's head hung low as he absently stirred his tea around. I think he was glad My Dead Gay Son had switched to a Led Zep tune that was deafening the room.

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Thirty-three

Rhonda lisBETH
arrived for our lunch date exactly at noon, dressed in preppie white shorts that fell just above her knobby knees, a tucked-in forest green polo shirt and white tennis shoes with exactly no scuffs on them and the kind of tennis socks with a little fuzz ball at the back in a coordinated forest green color. Her gorgeous black hair with the strands of gray was tucked under a white golf visor.

Not even a "hello." She looked at me and said, "You're wearing
that?"
Who would have thought lisBETH to be afflicted by a case of Nancyitis?

I looked down at my combat boots, short black skirt, and New York Knicks b-ball sleeveless net jersey, boys size. "What's the prob?" Seemed to me the fashion police should have been descending down on her, not me.

"You don't think that outfit is rather...revealing?"

"Only on the lay-up, lisBETH, only on the lay-up." I made a clucking sound with my mouth.

"What's a lay-up?"

I made a dribbling motion with my hands and raised my eyebrows at her, as if to say, does this look familiar? LisBETH's face showed zilch comprehension. "Oh, never mind," I said.