Hurricane Days (27 page)

Of course every teenager feels tortured and that her experience is singular and dramatic and worthy of a movie soundtrack. I was no different. After I crossed the state line, it was like I was in a Western; I could almost hear the music of danger, as though I was an early settler in hostile territory.

I passed church after church, with steeples rising up into a white, expressionless sky. Winter had cast a murky cloud over everything—yellow and brown grass, bare trees and icy patches left on the road from a recent storm. More billboards with
Bible
quotes… And a chain of “old-time” family restaurants. The photos of the family eating at the restaurant always consisted of a smiling mother and father, and two-point-five kids. Everything seemed a sharp contrast to some of the half-naked men dancing under strobe lights at the Cobra Club. Much to my great surprise, I felt more at home there.

I switched the radio from classical to a heavy metal station. I smiled inside when I heard a song I recognized: The Scorpions’ “No One Like You.” It reminded me of my first night at school. The flashes of neon lights across Adrienne’s profile as she drove…and the smell of smoke even as she held her cigarette out the window… I’d never forget those things. I had to turn the station until I found some sleigh bell-type song, one that was so familiar I didn’t have to really listen to it. After a few more miles, I turned onto the country road—winding toward our grand house. I imagined how Carol, and even Adrienne, would have snickered at such opulence. But why should I apologize for my family having money? I fought with them inside my head as I drove up. I thought about all the things Carol had said about my dad’s policies. I’d never been more confused about things I’d once taken for granted.

The surrounding yard dusted with snow greeted me like an old friend. I pulled into the familiar gravel driveway and was suddenly grateful for the distraction of Christmas.

After a flurry of hugs from my parents, we assembled in the living room. Dad was trying to hide his interest in a news program as he dragged my suitcase across the floor. He kept glancing at the TV.

“How’s your nose, dear?” Mom asked.

“Yeah.” Dad had plunked into his velvet chair. “You’re not contagious or anything?”

“No, it’s allergies. I’m taking something.” I wouldn’t tell them that I’d been putting off allergy shots as long as possible.

Mom disappeared for a minute, followed by the furious sounds of dishes in the kitchen.

“Does she need help?” I asked, still tired from my trip. Always the dutiful daughter, I felt bad if I didn’t ask.

“Nah, she’s got it,” Dad replied. “She’ll kick you out if you touch anything, believe me.”

“Kenneth’s just pulled in,” Mom announced, eyeing the driveway while carrying a casserole dish to the dining room. I couldn’t remember too many times when I didn’t see my mom carrying a casserole of some sort. “All right, time for dinner!”

“Just a minute, Mother,” Dad complained, as he’d done for twenty years. He continued to stare with glazed eyes at the news.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Jimmy! Can’t you stop watching that for a minute?”

“That Reagan is the best thing that’s ever happened to this country,” he declared, clicking off the television.

“Oh, please,” I groaned.

“What?” His eyebrows raised.

“I’m not voting Republican.” I might as well have aimed a gun at everyone.

Dad turned to Mom. “See, she goes off to college and comes back a goddamn liberal!”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name during the holidays,” Mom warned as she headed back into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong with voting Republican?” Dad wasn’t going to let that remark slide.

I debated as to what to say. “Maybe we should save this for another day.”

“No.” Dad wasn’t going to leave me alone.

“We’re talking about economics in class,” I said. I didn’t want to mention my conversations with Carol. “Reagan’s policies seem to be protecting the rich and leaving the rest of the country to fend for itself. I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

“Feel?” he bellowed. “I’d like a word with some of those damn teachers of yours.”

“Oh, here we go,” Mom sighed. Her silent hand signals weren’t getting anyone to the table any faster.

“I’ll tell you what you’re gonna
feel
if you vote Democrat,” he said. “We can afford nice things because I worked hard to get us here. Now if our taxes get raised for all these programs to help lazy people, then we might not have much money left. So you’re gonna
feel
cheated that the government is taking our money. Or someday,
your
money.”

I thought about Carol. It wasn’t her fault she had a condition that required costly medications. But I stayed silent. I wanted to keep the peace and avoid another stressful holiday meal that hurt my digestion.

“It’s not that simple,” Mom argued.

“There’s your mother.” He shook his head. “She’d keep givin’ the shirt off her back to the poor til she don’t got any clothes left.” He winked at her. “I love her compassion, though, even if she does get swindled all the time.”

“I do not! It’s called being a good Christian.”

Just then Kenneth came through the door, wearing the same tan corduroy jacket I always remembered. He’d gotten a haircut, and his blond strands seemed a little darker. He was turning into a very handsome man.

“Where’s Sheila?” Mom asked, the first one to hug him.

“She thinks she’s gettin’ the flu. She didn’t want to make y’all sick.” Kenneth took off his jacket, then gave me a big hug. “Sorry I didn’t get to see you off before school,” he said apologetically.

“I forgive you.” I smiled at him. He was another one who was easy to forgive. Of course he wouldn’t call or write letters the whole time I was away, but I knew he wasn’t much of a writer.

Dad gave him a quick slap on the back, and my brother made a beeline for the table.

He had moved to Marietta with Sheila, his girlfriend of two years, and gotten a more “respectable job,” as Dad put it, at a retail store selling automotive parts. Dad still held a grudge that Kenneth didn’t stay and work the farm, that he had to pay “twice as much” to get help. But Kenneth let the guilt roll off his back somehow, and I wanted to ask him what magical spell he used to do it. Mom and Dad were anxiously awaiting engagement news from Kenneth, so they wouldn’t have to keep dodging the issue of him living in sin around their church friends.

Slicing the turkey as he’d done every year, Dad rattled on about family values.

“What does that mean?” Kenneth asked, scooping a mountain of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “I mean, who isn’t for family?”

“You’d be surprised,” Dad said mysteriously.

Kenneth grinned. “I’m for dysfunctional families myself.” He winked at me.

“Smart-ass,” Dad muttered.

There was something so comforting about being back home with people I’d known my whole life. After all, they were my touchstones in the world, the people who had always made me feel safe in spite of their weirdness.

“So tell us about school, dear,” Mom said.

“It’s great.” I was tempted to talk about Adrienne, but I didn’t want my face to turn red or accidentally reveal anything that would result in yelling. So for the sake of my digestion, I kept quiet.

“How do you like the campus?” Dad asked.

“It’s beautiful,” I answered. “I went to this amazing place off-campus the other night…it was a club that played really good music and…I went with this friend of mine.”

Mom’s eyes twinkled with delight. “A
boy
friend?”

“Oh no.” I laughed and tried to act like it was no big deal. “He’s a boy, yeah, but he’s gay, so, no…not a boyfriend.”

A stunned silence fell upon the table. Mom jumped up to get some extra gravy. My dad dropped his turkey cutting knife. And Kenneth simply said nothing. It felt like all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. During this time in the 1980s, the only time gay people were mentioned was in news reports about AIDS or pride parades where the commentary wasn’t exactly favorable.

Dad pointed his fork at me. It was a major moment I’d never forget. “You be careful who you associate with down there, y’hear? I don’t wanna hear that my daughter is hangin’ out with queers.”

“But he’s a nice guy!” I insisted. “You just don’t know anyone who is.”

“I don’t want you gettin’ any diseases,” he said, plunging the knife into his turkey. “And you don’t want to associate with them ’cause it reflects bad on you.”

“Really, dear,” Mom chimed in. “How do you expect to find a nice boy to marry if you spend time with…you know?” I knew she wasn’t trying to be cruel; she just didn’t understand.

“It’s no big deal. We went out dancing once.” I stared down at my peas. They were the kind that were fuzzy inside and made me feel like I was going to choke.

There was silence all around. Dad seemed to be coming out of his chair.

“Feel free to jump in here.” He glared at Kenneth. “She listens to you.”

“I hear they’re good dancers,” Kenneth said. “Maybe they can teach her ’cause she sucks.”

I shoved my brother.

“Robin,” Mom began, “if you continue to go to these…places…people will think you are, you know.”

“You wanna bring shame on the family?” Dad said. “Keep hangin’ out with queers. You don’t know what you’re gettin’ mixed up in.”

Now it felt like my parents were the enemy, giving me those same shivers I had in the club parking lot when the gang of guys harassed us. This wasn’t the man who had taught me how to swim or the mother who had cut bubble gum out of my hair when a cruel wind had shifted my bubble over to the side of my head at age seven. My loving parents had been replaced with fearful, angry strangers, hissing and clawing at me from across the table.

“I guess I don’t see the big deal,” I said quietly.

“Your grandmother would turn over in her grave if she heard you talk like this,” Dad said.

“She was cremated,” Mom corrected.

“Well, whose fault was that?” Dad was now irritated and purple.

“Let’s move on, Jimmy,” Mom urged softly. Certainly this wasn’t the conversation Mom had envisioned when I came home from college.

But a heaviness had fallen across the table. I lost my appetite. There was nothing worse than arguing with my parents. I was a pleaser at heart and never wanted to do anything to upset or disappoint them. That’s why I instinctively knew it was up to me to salvage the family dinner.

“Just so you know,” I said, “I wasn’t planning to go back to that place anymore. I only liked the music they played.”

“Well, you can hear music anywhere,” Dad said, lightening up a little.

“Yes.” Mom was very eager to ask Dad to name places in town where they played music.

So he launched into a long speech about exploring the town more and checking out this and that. I tuned him out, then slid a forkful of peas into my mouth. I chewed and chewed them but couldn’t swallow. They seemed to expand inside my mouth. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m that way either.” I heard myself say the words. I felt Bette Davis judging me. But it was a momentary, fleeting discomfort. It was so much easier to slide back into the familiar, the ways of home, of religion, of straightness.

My parents nodded with relieved smiles. The world was turning on its axis again.

I glanced at my brother, noticing how he didn’t seem to mind challenging our parents. He didn’t seem to care about keeping the peace. Then again, they didn’t seem to get so angry at him either. When he told Dad that the farm was not for him, Dad reluctantly had no choice but to accept it. Somehow, though, I knew with something like being gay, it wouldn’t be the same level of acceptance as changing jobs.

* * *

That night, I lay on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. I imagined what the dinner table would have been like if I’d told them I wondered if I might be gay. What I pictured was a nightmare—silverware flying, Mom breathing into a paper bag and Dad having a stroke. But especially the yelling. It would last for days. I was exhausted from simply imagining it.

What a strange, yet familiar, holiday it would be this year—with the frenzied unwrapping of presents, the sounds of Dad and Kenneth snoring in front of a football game and Mom baking Christmas coffee cake. She spent her whole life in the kitchen, and she loved it. It truly was her favorite room in the house, and not because of 1950s advertisements that told her she belonged there, but because she really loved cooking and baking. When she was not cooking or baking, she was looking for new recipes to cook or bake. I didn’t really understand her, but I envied how clear her goals seemed to be and how she could let the day take her in whatever direction—without having to have a list of projects every morning. I was driven to a level my mother wouldn’t understand. Every day, I felt compelled to achieve; my ambition was thicker than the Georgia mud. I’d inherited that from my father.

I was now suspended over my body, watching myself lying in bed, locked in a weird place where there was no way out.
But there was.
I didn’t have to be subjected to taunting strangers outside back-alley clubs. I had all the power to stop these thoughts and choose the path I’d follow, the right path, God’s path. I could follow Adrienne’s lead and say the whole thing happened because we drank too much. Nothing more. After all, Reverend Butler always said that alcohol was the devil’s brew and caused people to do strange things, usually things without their clothes on.

A dance song by The Cure, “Lovesong,” played faintly in the background, reminding me of the Cobra Club. Before I changed the station to classical, I got a great idea. I found a blank cassette in my desk drawer and began making a compilation tape. Even though Adrienne and I had agreed not to get each other anything because we were both broke—I went along with that so she wouldn’t hate me for having money—we never said anything about
making
a present. And I wanted to do this. I felt so excited. I waited for songs I recognized to come on the radio station, and I quickly hit “record” to get them from the beginning, hoping the DJs wouldn’t talk over them. This was the most fun I’d have all Christmas.