Hard Love (14 page)

But when I finally called, it was her mother who answered.

“Oh, hello, Gio! This is Helen. How have you been?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“We were so pleased to hear that Marisol will be going to your prom with you. I’m sure it will be lots of fun!” She sounded like she ought to be Emily’s mother instead of Marisol’s.

“I hope so.” If Marisol had told them about it, it meant
she wasn’t going to back out on me. I was sure she’d also tried to tell them it wasn’t an actual
date
, but it sounded like old Helen might not be so interested in the fine points of the arrangement.

“I’ll go find Marisol for you. I know she’ll be so happy you called.” It made me sad actually, the way Marisol’s mother was grabbing onto me like a life raft. Here she was marching in the Gay Pride parade, flying the PFLAG flag, but still hoping to find out there’d been a little mistake about what Marisol meant by “coming out”; she was really supposed to be getting ready for a debutante ball.

“Hi,” Marisol said. “I can’t talk long. I’ve got lots of homework.” Her voice was so flattened out I hardly recognized it.

“If this is about that prom thing, don’t worry, I got a dress.” She chuckled a little. “It makes me look like Spider Woman.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, imagining filmy webs hanging from her elbows.

“So, anyway, you can work out the rest of the details.”

“Okay.” No way was I mentioning the limo. “But I actually called about something else that’s going on the
next
weekend.”

“What? The Junior Class Wienie Roast?”

This conversation was almost as bad as my nightmare version.

“I got a letter from Diana Tree today. You know, she writes that zine
No Regrets
.”

“Oh, yeah, she’s the one who’s always so happy-sappy. Nature girl. Why’s she writing to you?”

“I wrote to her. I like her zine.”

“You do? It’s so virtuous! She’s a granola-head.”

“I don’t think … well, whatever. Anyway, listen a minute. She says there’s a zine conference on Cape Cod the weekend of the twenty-third. In Provincetown. That’s not so far,” said he who has seldom left the Boston-Darlington Trail in six years of weekly travel, and has no sense of direction. “Maybe we could go. They’re all staying at some guy’s resort on the beach. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

There was no immediate reaction.

“Hello?”

“I heard you. I don’t know, Gio. I’m not much of a group person, you know? I mean, zines are great, but that doesn’t mean all the people who write them will be so great. What if it’s some big love fest? What if we get down there and find out we’re stuck with a bunch of dorks or slimeballs or something?”

“Why would they be dorks? Besides, we can just leave if it’s not fun.”

She sighed too deeply. “Gio, the thing is, we’ve been having a lot of togetherness lately. Last weekend, and then this prom thing. … You know?”

Of course I knew. It was the reason I was no longer comatose after an entire life of sleepwalking. It seemed that, all of a sudden, Marisol was necessary to my existence, but, of course, I didn’t mention that to her. “We’d just ride down together. You wouldn’t have to hang around with me if it’s that odious.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Just think about it, will you? You don’t have to decide this minute.”

“Fine. Consider me thinking. I’ve really got to go now, Gio. My G and T brain needs to launch an attack against physics. You understand.”

I was afraid I did.

*   *   *

“I told you earlier in the week Al’s mother had invited me to dinner this evening,” Mom said. The annoyance in her voice was probably not caused only by my asking what was for supper.

“I forgot. It’s okay. I’ll get a pizza or something.” She followed me into the den, where I flopped on the couch, attempting to render myself invisible by passing for a normal teenage boy.

“Al said his mother wanted to invite you too, but I told him you wouldn’t want to come anyway. We should just leave you alone.”

“Leave me alone—that’s the way to handle it.”

“I’m not
handling
you.” That much I knew.

She steamed a little bit, then went in search of her car keys. I turned on MTV so I could pretend to be doing something I didn’t want interrupted.

“You could ask Brian to come over if you want. He hasn’t been here in weeks.”

“He’s got a girlfriend. I told you.”

“So he doesn’t have time for his old friends?”

“Mother! We’re going to the stupid prom together next weekend. Isn’t that enough? Besides, I’m going to bed early. I’m working at the Harborside all weekend so I can afford this momentous rite of passage.”

She twirled the keys around her finger. There was something else on her mind. “I can’t help but wonder who this Marisol girl
is
. She just appeared out of the woodwork. You say you met her in Boston, but met her how? On the street? You couldn’t know very much about her.”

Why was I doing this to myself? To Marisol? One minute I couldn’t wait to see her in her Spider Woman dress; the next minute I thought I must be the biggest fool on the planet. It was crazy. In all my classes kids were obsessing about the prom; the girls seemed to think they were going on their honeymoons, and the guys had fantasized some kind of Club Med experience. How on earth was Marisol going to fit into this picture, which, obviously, even included scrutiny from my mother?

“She didn’t come out of the woodwork, Mom. She’s not a cockroach.”

Finally she threw her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door. “I can’t talk to you anymore. I’m going to Al’s. Don’t wait up.”

Why? I wanted to ask. Are you sleeping over? But I didn’t. One facial blow a week is enough for me. She slammed the door and locked it, just in case this was the moment I was planning my escape.

Dear Mom,

On the advice of my friend Marisol, the woodwork pest, I’m writing you a letter you will never see. When Marisol writes to her mother, she both blames and forgives her, because, even though the woman abandoned her at birth, Marisol is a fair and balanced person.

But I’m not. I’ve become warped and crooked in these years since you and Dad divorced, and even though I know you’d put most of the blame on Dad, who does indeed deserve his share, it’s you who screwed me up on a daily basis for the last six years. If I did let you read this, you’d put it down right about now. You’d say I’m so unfair. What terrible thing did you ever do to me? You barely escaped with your sanity as it was!

But the problem isn’t what you Did do, it’s what you Didn’t. At first, when Dad left, I was scared, but at least I still had you——(I thought)——you hadn’t run away from me. It didn’t take long to realize how wrong I was. You were gone too. Sealed up inside yourself where I couldn’t get in, never mind that we still lived in the same house.

I’m going to dare to say it now——so brace yourself——the thing we never talk about: the fact that you can’t bear to touch me, or have me touch you. Not even an accidental brushing of the hands, a bump of shoulders, knees under the table. Certainly not the kind of touching most children have regularly: a hand on a fevery forehead, a game of tickling, a goodnight kiss. For years I made up excuses for you, and tried to convince myself you didn’t really hate me as much as you hated Dad. But the evidence didn’t confirm it.

So I took all the sadness of the divorce, and all the love I’d once had for both of you, and all the fear I had of being alone, and turned it into a stone wall to hide behind. To protect myself. I’m so protected now, dear Mother, sometimes I feel like I’m barely alive.

I am immune to emotion. And I hate you for it.

Your loving son,
John

Dear Dad,

The letter to Mom was easier. Because even though I’m mad at her for lots of things, I still want to tell her about it. So I guess that means I think she might still be able to hear what I’m saying. I don’t really think you’ll be listening, but since this is only an exercise, (or maybe an exorcism?) I’ll try to figure out what it is I have to say to you too.

Even though I blame you more than Mom for the miseries of my growing up, I don’t hate you. Maybe that’s because hate is such a strong emotion, and you don’t really call up any feeling in me at all. Who are you? A guy who left his wife and child because they didn’t fit the selfish lifestyle he preferred. A guy who eats dinner with his kid every Friday night, but has nothing to say to him. A guy who didn’t realize his son even existed until the kid brought a girl home and draped her jeans over the shower rail.

Maybe you’re more than that. I know in your sophisticated, literary world people think you’re a big deal. I thought so too until I was ten years old. Maybe someday I’ll write a
brilliant novel, and then you’ll want to know who I am, you’ll want to tell everybody, “That’s my son!”

And I’ll say, “I remember you. You’re the guy I used to always see at Bertucci’s on Friday nights. When I had dinner there by myself.”

Your egotistically named son,
John Frances Galardi Jr.

Chapter Eleven

I saw the letter on top of the pile of mail on the kitchen counter when I got back from doing prom errands with Brian, picking up the tuxedos and flowers. But Brian was obviously settling in for a while, scavenging through the fridge for bagels and cream cheese, so I tried to ignore it. Why would Marisol send me a letter? I’d be seeing her in a few hours, wouldn’t I?

We hadn’t had a decent phone conversation since I’d seen her last, that morning at Dad’s. She was always in a hurry and couldn’t talk long. Yesterday I’d finally gotten her to stay on the line long enough to give her directions to my house, which she didn’t seem all that interested in. She kept saying, “I can find it, I can find it.”

Finally, I said, “You
are
coming, aren’t you?”

“I
said
I’d come. I don’t lie, Gio.” She sounded furious.

“Look, if you don’t want to come …” I couldn’t finish the sentence. What would I do if she didn’t come? The humiliation of it, and the money already spent, were nothing compared to the pitiful ache I could feel already, in my throat and in my chest, just imagining I might not be with her after all. But then I shook myself out of it. What was wrong with me? Did I expect something momentous to occur at a high school prom? If Marisol backed out, I’d live.

“Let’s not discuss this anymore, okay?” she said, a little more calmly. “I’ll be there at six o’clock. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll meet your friends at what’s-her-name’s house.”

“Emily,” I said. “You won’t like her.”

“Can’t wait. Gotta run.” And that was that.

I realized Brian had been yakking away while he toasted bagels and polished off Mom’s tomato juice. He seemed to be praising himself for his taste in corsages.

“Her dress is white, so any color would have been okay, I guess, but the pink roses are really classy, don’t you think? I’ve never seen roses that tiny before, have you? I never even realized roses
came
in so many colors. Did you like the pink the best? I could have gone with the yellow ones, but …” I couldn’t listen to it.

“Your corsage is nice too. Kind of dark. I mean a purple orchid on a black dress, but if you think she’ll like it.”

I didn’t really think she’d like anything. She didn’t want to come; what difference would a purple orchid make?

Brian was so excited, I was almost jealous of him. He was crazy about that goofy little freshman, and she liked him too. Who’d have guessed
that
could happen? I let him
blab on for about an hour, interjecting just enough verbiage that he believed we were having a conversation. Finally I convinced him to leave so we’d both have time to disinfect every pore of our nervous male bodies before the curtain went up on tonight’s show.

At the door he reminded me: “The limo comes at six thirty, but get there before that because Emily’s mom wants to take pictures of us.”

“Don’t worry.” I knew I ought to tell him that Marisol wasn’t really my girlfriend. Wasn’t interested in me that way at all. Was, in fact, gay. I didn’t expect her to hide it from anybody, and yet, I didn’t feel like announcing it either. It would just come out naturally. That way it wouldn’t be a big thing. Nobody would care.

I closed the door on Brian, walked slowly to the kitchen like there was thin ice under my feet, and sliced open the letter from Marisol, my hands actually shaking. It’s
mail
, I told myself. What are you afraid of? There was only one sheet of paper inside with a poem on it. A Post-it note in the middle of the page said, “Not for the zine. You’ll see what I mean.”

I didn’t read it right away; I had to calm down first. I was a frigging mess just imagining getting through this whole prom event. In fact, my nerves had been shot ever since I wrote those letters to my parents. Marisol hadn’t mentioned that side effect. It was like my skin had all of a sudden been turned nerve-side-out. The letters were hidden under a pile of socks and boxers in a drawer, but I’d have to move them somewhere else or give up changing my under-wear.
Every time I opened that drawer a cold wind shook me like some kind of supernatural force.

The poem was printed out on plain white paper, not decorated like a zine poem might be. No stickers or drawings or pictures—nothing playful about this communication. I could tell, by the title and by the timing, this was a poem for me. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was read it.

You’re Not Listening

I am invisible if I don’t

tell you. You’ll write my

lines however it suits you.

I haven’t lied, but you’re not

listening.