Are You Sitting Down? Read online

  “Is Lorraine a Baptist or a Methodist?” he asked.

  “Which has the better bake sale?” I replied.

  Justin had always called my mother by her first name. She never corrected him. She was Lorraine to all of her old friends in town. I liked the idea that he was an old friend too. There was a time long ago when she would not have been so accepting of him because she was not accepting of me, but I had yet to meet Justin back then. Few boyfriends graced the White family holidays until Mom asked me once if I’d like to bring someone along.

  “I’m afraid the family might scare them away,” I joked, but I was secretly glad she had asked.

  My younger brother brought a different girl every year, and no one ever asked twice what happened to the last one. It seemed to be routine, and expected, that he never dated the same girl for more than a year. My older brother and sister were both married. Even my younger sister had a steady boyfriend in high school that ate dinner with us once. I was tired of appearing to be the only single man at the family table. I was tired of having to forget about my special someone for a day, kissing them good-bye before the 150 mile journey back home, exchanging gifts with them the night before or the day after.

  I indeed had my own personal life, and then there was my family. But I was old enough now that I was ready for both of them to stop being so personal and separate. Thanks to my Mom, they converged. There was Robert that first year, then Rodney the next. (At first, I seemed to have developed my younger brother’s dating habits.) Billy was only a friend I invited who otherwise would have spent Christmas alone that year, but Mom insisted on asking how he was doing every time we spoke on the phone for a while after. Then, I met Justin.

  Surprisingly, we’d gone to high school together right here in Ruby Dregs. He was a year behind me, and although we were both closeted questioning teenagers we never once spoke to each other. We had different friends, played different sports, and joined different clubs. I moved to Memphis for college; Justin attended the local community college after he graduated.

  Six years would pass and I was home for a week’s vacation visiting Mom. I bumped into Justin one night at a community theater production. I didn’t recognize him from high school, but he later told me he had recognized me. Our eyes met and locked in that chilling stare that two people like us share, when no words and no introductions are necessary. We immediately knew the one thing we had in common. We both slept with men.

  He was seated several rows behind me. I could feel the weight of his hazel eyes on the back of my head, so much I wanted to turn around and look back at him. I didn’t. At intermission I stood up to stretch and faced the back of the auditorium, nodding to the familiar yet nameless faces I had not seen in years. Justin’s seat was empty. He had rushed out to smoke, and hoped I’d come out looking for him. But he had no words to share with me, and smoked half a pack anxiously hoping I’d come speak to him first. But I was a chicken too and didn’t go looking for him.

  The lights flickered signaling the start of the second act. He rushed back in and just as I was about to sit back down, our eyes met again. Justin smiled an awkward smile; he later told me he was just glad I was still there. I gave a nod as if I knew who he was. I wanted to know. Gutsy, he waited for me at the back of the auditorium when the show was over. I stayed seated to let the crowd thin out, somehow knowing he’d be there looking for me. I wanted him to be, and had secretly wished for it through the second act. My wish came true.

  “Did you go to RD?” Justin asked, pulling away from the wall where he’d been leaning. Ruby Dregs was also the name of the local high school.

  “Yeah. Class of 93. You?”

  “Class of 94.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m Justin. Justin Black,” he said offering a trembling hand for me to shake.

  “I’m Travis—“

  “Travis White?” he asked, interrupting me.

  “Yeah,” I said. His hand was cold and clammy when I shook it, but I didn’t want to let go.

  We went for coffee that night at the Pancake House. After community college, Justin had worked odd local retail jobs. He was currently the manager of a wicker imports store that had just opened here two years ago. Although this was his hometown, he wasn’t happy here. He lived at home with his parents. He’d never had a boyfriend. He needed to escape.

  It would be six months before that happened. He stayed with me every weekend in Memphis when he didn’t have to work. I showed him the city. He liked it. He wanted to be here with me on a regular basis. I wanted him here. To my surprise, he secretly started looking for a job. When he found one, he surprised me over dinner one night by asking if he could move in with me. My studio was too small for us, so we looked for a larger apartment. Our first place. Together.

  We often shared a laugh about our last names being opposites. Black and White. We dressed as salt and pepper shakers one year for a Halloween party. But secretly, it worried me. I was afraid as a couple, we’d be total opposites too after Justin moved in with me. I knew what it was like to be a young man finally free of the chains of a close-minded small town and new to the city. It changes you. You rush into things just to experience them. You break hearts and get yours broken. You turn your back on regrets. I’d had six years to myself in the city to get past all that, but Justin was different and he constantly reminded me of that. And he was right.

  He never once turned his back on me.

  * * * *

  My mother was a tall lady, as tall as me at six three. She was elegantly thin with straight shoulder-length frosted hair that she parted down the middle. Her black thick rimmed glasses and Roman nose gave her a boyish look in the face, like a clumsy cartoon bird. We’d tried to get her to swap the rims for something a little daintier. She hated the word dainty and refused to be associated with it. She only wore the glasses for reading, and since she read often the glasses were usually on her face even when there wasn’t a book in front of her.

  She almost always wore black. Her closet consisted of nothing but black pants, black jeans, and long black skirts. Her tops were always white blouses, white turtle necks, or maybe a white sweater with hints of silver. She’d accent it with a red scarf or a vest, and some shiny jewelry. Today, she had on black fitted pants and a white turtle neck covered in small bunches of holly.

  “Hello darling,” she called from the front door. I had just driven up and parked my car behind hers and was opening the back door to unload the food.

  “Merry Christmas!” I called out, busy with the ham.

  “Merry Christmas to you doll. Do you need some help? Let me get my shoes.”

  She disappeared inside and came back out in a hurry, bustling down the steps. Mom had a way of just hurriedly reacting to situations, not giving you a chance to answer. At thirty-five years of age, I was quite accustomed to just saving my breath. She opened the passenger door and began filling her arms with the wrapped boxes.

  “Are these all for me? You shouldn’t have. What’d you get your brothers and sisters?”

  I have four siblings: an older brother and sister, and a younger brother and sister. I was right in the middle, the dividing point between traditional conforming generations and the not so compliant ones. My older brother and sister were each married with children. I was gay. My younger brother was a recovering addict who’d lost a girlfriend to drugs. My younger sister also “ran around with the wrong crowd,” to quote my mother.

  “Are they here yet?” I asked.

  I knew they weren’t because there were only two cars in the driveway, mine and Mom’s. But by asking she’d give me the updates on all of them and when they were expected to get here.

  “You are the first to arrive, my dear. Ellen and the two kids will be here shortly.”

  “What about Mark?” I asked.

  Ellen was the oldest sister. Mark was Ellen’s husband. They had a young daughter and a son. Mom seemed startled when I said his name.

  “He won’t be here th
is year,” she said in a heavy whisper as if someone might hear us.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “Ask your sister.”

  I left it at that. I knew their marriage had been on the rocks, but had not heard the latest. Since I was the only one who lived out of town, I was usually the last to know about anything.

  “Martin and Marline and the kids will be along later,” Mom said.

  Martin was my older brother. Marline was his wife. They had a boy and a girl also.

  “What about Sebastian?” I asked.

  Sebastian was my younger brother.

  “He should be here by mid-afternoon.”

  “Is he seeing anyone?”

  “Oh no, not since what happened with Lind. Clare should be here any minute with Jake though.”

  Jake was my younger sister’s son. He was two. My sister just turned twenty-two, still quite the baby herself, and unwed. Jake’s father was a black man named André. No one in the family had ever met him. Clare had told me André didn’t even know about Jake, and she preferred it that way.

  Although Jake definitely brought attention to our family, it wasn’t the first time the White family had been the center of church pew gossip. My mother took it very well, and tried very hard not to make Jake seem like, quite literally, the black sheep of the family.

  “I’m sure André is a very pleasant person, and I see nothing wrong with interracial relationships. It’s not my choice, but I do know one thing. A black man and a white lady sure do make a pretty baby,” Mom told me once.

  My mom is not a racist. I think she was more accepting of Jake than when she found out I was gay, but then again, Jake is her grandchild. There’s a reason to be proud. There’s a baby shower to throw and cute little outfits to buy. There’s a nursery to paint and a name to pick out.

  Although Clare would have no part in any of that, my mother was at least allowed to dream of it. No mother throws a party when her son announces he sleeps with men. They weep, maybe because they really wanted grandchildren. And so there’s Jake.

  “What time is dinner?” I asked.

  “Sixish.”

  “Why so late?”

  “It’s Christmas Eve. Why do you care? Got somewhere better to be?”

  “Maybe,” I said slyly, just trying to be funny.

  “Go early this afternoon if you want,” she said in a sincere tone. She knew I was talking about visiting Justin’s grave.

  Mom always wanted to prolong everything around the holidays. When we all lived at home, we never ate that late any other day. She always tried to make Christmas different. She would want to eat at six or seven, and then assume we’d all want to sit around and talk while we let our food digest. She tried to make us wait until eight to open gifts.

  “At least wait till it gets dark outside,” she’d say.

  In reality, Sebastian would arrive around four, starving and ready to eat. All the food would have been long prepared by then, but Mom would keep it tucked in the oven and under the broiler. She’d stand at the stove and stir a pot of beans, guarding the stove and busying herself with nothing. Ellen and Clare would offer to help, but she wouldn’t let them. Anything to delay dinner while Sebastian and Martin watched a football game.

  After an hour of Sebastian’s complaining, she’d empty the stove in ten minutes, laying out a buffet bar of hot food. We’d all grab a paper plate and get in line and then sit down to eat and be done in thirty minutes, except for Mom. She’d help the grandkids put food on their plates and make their drinks. She’d pass out napkins and refill our glasses with iced tea. She’d wait until everyone had a plate before fixing her own. Then, she’d purposely eat slowly.

  “Does anyone want dessert?” Mom would chime.

  “No!” We’d all say in unison.

  “Let’s have dessert after we open gifts,” one of my nieces or nephews would suggest, trying to drop a hint.

  By six, Mom would give in and the gifts would be passed out. When we were all young and lived at home, Mom had the duty of sitting on the floor and passing out the gifts to each of the five kids. She’d attempt to make us take turns, letting Clare go first because she was the youngest, making everyone pay attention and watch. Martin and Sebastian were never patient, and usually had secretly peeled the paper off one of their own gifts before it was their turn.

  With all manners aside and now five small grandchildren present, Mom preferred to take photos. She let Ellen and Clare pass out gifts. Sebastian would watch from the kitchen while nibbling on leftovers. Martin and Marline would keep the kids from fighting over toys. I’d entertain Jake and watch empty space grow underneath the Christmas tree. Piles of crinkled and torn paper and bows would fill the rest of the room. The grownups would all grab a trash bag and help pick it up after each kid had a turn running and jumping into the red and green mess, and maybe after Sebastian took a turn too.

  Paper plates and plastic cups overflowed the trash can. An Elvis or Liberace Christmas CD was drowned out from the squeals of children and roar of mechanical toys. Sebastian would be the first to leave. Martin would fall asleep on the sofa while Ellen, Clare, and I helped Mom clean up the kitchen. We’d all sit and chat over pecan pie and coffee. After his nap, Martin and Ellen would collect the kids and toys for their drive home to prepare for Santa’s arrival. Clare would be the last to leave unless she was staying over. I always spent the night at Mom’s.

  This was the White Family Christmas.

  No matter who else attended with us each year, the rest of the holiday never changed. It’d been that way for quite some time. Predictable. Long-established. Traditional.

  Although I was alone now, something told me this year would be different. There was nothing odd about Mom to make me think this. Her house and yard were the same, as if she’d given immaculate attention to making it look exactly like it did every year before. It had been a while since we all spent any time together—Mom and all five kids— but there was no reason to think this year would be unlike years passed.

  It still felt unusual, almost as if Mom was keeping something from me. Like an anxious child guessing at a gift under the tree based on the shape of its colorfully wrapped box, I hoped I was right and no surprises were in store.

  Mr. Black

  Like some predator lurking in an alley way, I stood just out of view of the front door to Greer’s Grocery so Travis could not see me once I had stepped inside. He wasn’t even looking in my direction after I had finished talking to him, but I admired him with a bit of desire in my eyes as he got into his car and drove away.

  As his car disappeared out of sight, I turned away and forgot about Travis. I looked around the grocery having forgotten momentarily why I had even stopped by, a lapse in my senses thanks to old age. The smell of meat in the stale air and the sight of cheap candy on the counter quickly reminded me.

  I put a nickel and a penny in the metal bowl on the counter and then helped myself to only five pieces of black licorice. Mr. Greer had always used the honesty system with the penny candy on the counter. As a teenager, I had taken advantage of the old man by paying for only two or three pieces but usually taking four or five. For the last ten years or so, I’d been silently paying him back by regularly leaving a penny or two more.

  “Any gizzards today?” I asked Mr. Greer loudly because I knew he didn’t hear well.

  “Just took a batch out the fryer. How many you want? I’ll bring ‘em over to ya.”

  “Six please.”

  I walked over to the ice cooler and took a bottle of root beer. I popped the cap with the bottle opener mounted on the side of the cooler. The familiar clink of the bottle top falling into the well on the cooler was so relaxing. My root beer bubbled over and dripped onto my hand and the floor.

  “Shit!”

  I grabbed some napkins from the nearby table to wipe off the sticky bottle. I licked my hand, and then guzzled the fizzy cola to appease my thirst. The loud rap of the bottle smacking the table as I sa
t it down startled me. I hadn’t meant to sit it down so harshly. I looked over at Mr. Greer to apologize, but he had not heard the noise. Hank Williams was playing on the radio.

  “Here you go, Manny. Careful now. They still hot,” Mr. Greer said walking over to the table. He sat the small cardboard tray down in front of me and then stepped back and waited for my approval.

  Four Points Grocery was the only place around where you could still get fried chicken gizzards. I looked down at the crispy brown pieces of meat sitting in the wax paper and licked my lips.

  “Hot mustard?” he asked.

  “Sure. Why not?” I said. I tucked a paper napkin into the front of my shirt and spread it out for a bib.

  Mr. Greer returned with a small paper cup of hot mustard for dipping. I thanked him, but he didn’t hear me as he walked away to tend to things behind the counter. The gizzards were extremely hot, but the callused tips of my fingers were rather immune to the blistering sting as many times as I’d eaten these by now. However, my tongue was not. I guzzled the rest of the root beer, and then blew out as if I was whistling, to cool my mouth. Flakes of crust spit out across the table and fell onto the napkin on my chest. I wiped the table with my sleeve and then retrieved another root beer from the cooler. A bell from outside announced that someone had pulled up to one of the gas pumps.

  “Pump two is on,” Mr. Greer yelled into a microphone. His garbled voice echoed from the speaker on the outside of the building outside.