“Her name in Gina, and I do not want her or anyone else from your staff cleaning the playroom. Gemma and I made the mess, and we are responsible for cleaning it up.” That’s usually part of the lesson, but today she had a music class, so I let her go early to make it on time. After all, punctuality is another important lesson. One I have yet to learn.
My mother’s staff runs most of her life. There are maids and cooks and drivers and gardeners and personal assistants. She employs a small army for a war, on what no one knows. My mother hasn’t worked a day in her life. She was born into wealth and it’s all she knows. I was too, but I want something more. I just don’t know what yet.
“While we are on subjects you don’t like. There’s a dinner tonight you are expected to be at. I put it on your calendar weeks ago. The dean of the law school will be there and it’s the perfect opportunity to tell him how excited you are to start this fall.”
I love my mom. I always say she has been like a mother to me. But she doesn’t really know who I am or what I want. She sees me as this rich party boy without any direction – which is also how the rest of the world sees me, so I can’t really blame her for that. Then there is the small detail that I happen tobea rich party boy. What can I say? I’m good at having fun. I know that. I don’t want that to change but I would like to change the expectation that that’sallI am. She’s always trying to get me to live an upstanding life with a job that will make the Gibson family name proud. She was thrilled when I told her I was dating someone pre-med because I’m sure she thought that some ambition would rub off on me.
Of course, it doesn’t help that my sister Claire was able to graduate top of her class, pass the bar and become part of my father’s trusted legal team all while getting married to an equally smart lawyer and being an incredible mom to Gemma. With less than an eight-year lead, Claire has set the bar so high it seems that no one is able to reach it. My mother, however, thinks law school contains the meaning of life. But maybe if I can show her that I can at least get a job on my own for the summer, she’ll see there might be more to me than everyone thinks.
My family couldn’t care less about me being gay, but not becoming a captain of industry or legal eagle or some other capitalist bullshit would be unthinkable. The fact that I have spent a gap year before law school loafing around not doing much embarrasses my mother. She’d do anything to get me out of the house.
“I understand you wanted to take a year off after graduation, but that year is almost up. Law school is the only option, darling. It’s not like you have any other offers on the table.”
“As a matter of fact,” I say, trying not to have a snippy tone. “I’ve been offered a contract to travel around the world as a brand ambassador with For Us.”
“Oh, lord,” she says, and covers her hands with her face. “Is that some kind of pornographic site?” She puts her hand to her chest, and I can’t tell if she’s kidding or serious.
“Mom! No! It’s a luxury travel brand, like Four Seasons or the Mandarin Oriental.” I rattle off some of her favorite brands so it will make sense to her. “I’ll be working all summer, traveling to different cities.”
“Well, not all summer. You know your father expects you at the Beckenberg wedding. The entire family will be there, your sister and brother-in-law, Gemma of course, and all the partners. Your father does a great deal of business with the Beckenbergs and it’s the perfect opportunity to line up a legal internship for next summer.” She’s imagining the eastern tip of Long Island floating away since all of the important people who usually anchor it down will be leaving the Hamptons to attend the wedding of the summer in Capri. For Us has a branch in Capri that’s on the itinerary, but I keep that detail to myself.
“Martin Beckenberg has a gay sister. I think her name is Larissa.”
“Excuse me,” I say. If she thinks I’m going to this thing just to up her diversity cred, she better back it up. “Mom, do not think…”
“Oh, Brady. I only meant you’ll have someone to talk to. Anyway, it’s very important for the firm. Non-negotiable family obligation – and since you’ll be in Europe anyway…” I didn’t say I’d be in Europe, so I guess she’s just assuming, the way she assumes I’ll have something to talk about with the lesbian sister.
I stop rubbing out a particularly stubborn stain to hold up one of our finger paintings, a colorful one with red and yellow on the edges and long blue lines that twist and turn. “Look at this one. Gemma said it’s a portrait of Grandma.”
My mom winces. She hates being called Grandma. She prefers the weird made-up name Gogo, which I have to admit describes her well, since she’s rarely standing still. My mom looks the painting up and down and says, “When is the real nanny coming back?”
I go back to scrubbing out the spot, ignoring what’s beneath her question. She thinks taking care of children is something other people do. “Her name is Angie, and she comes back from her leave in a week. And I don’t want to talk about law school. I’ve had a great few months with Gemma.”
“I know that. She loves her Uncle Brady, but this hotel job thing sounds like it will give you something to do before law school starts.”
“Mom, enough,” I say, and she raises her perfectly manicured hands above her shoulders in surrender and walks down the hall.
Now that I’ve told my mother I’ve got a job for the summer, I have to actually make sure I have a job for the summer, and the only way to do that is to make the call one more time. But if Hayes says no then not only will I not have plans for the summer, my parents will once again see me as the unambitious black sheep of the family. They’ll ship me off to law school to dye my onyx wool alabaster.
I take out my phone intending to call Hayes, but instead I connect it to the speakers in the playroom and then shove my phone to the side. I spin around with my arms outstretched practicing the choreo I just taught Gemma, singing along to “Stop! In the Name of Love” with Miss Diana Ross. Anything to delay the inevitable.
Chapter 4
Pre-departure
Hayes
Gravel snaps under the wheels of my F-150 as I peel out of the parking lot on to the highway. Spring air that should smell like honeysuckle by now only gives off exhaust and gasoline from the interstate. I drive by Smokey Anne’s BBQ to see if I can pick up a shift but remember it closed two months ago. All the warehouses by the woods are laying off seasonal workers, so no chance there. The “dead mall” remains unresponsive. I need to get out of this place.
There are a lot of good people in Eagle Rock, Alabama who would give you their last bowl of grits if you needed it. But I also drive by enough Confederate flags on a daily basis to make me sick to my stomach. I pass the Baptist church where we had mom’s funeral when I was kid. A few years later the sign in front said, “God Believes in Man and Wife. Only” and my dad said me and my sisters were never stepping foot in there again. Now we go to a church with a sign that says, “God Wants Spiritual Fruits, Not Religious Nuts.” Still, I grew up ashamed of who I was; the message baked in with the Southern sun.
When I got a scholarship to go up north to Clarkson, I became part of a new world in Connecticut. Arty students recited their original poems in the lounges and finance geeks pulled all-nighters studying cash flow statements. Students protested injustice on a weekly basis the same way the entire town of Eagle Rock would come out for a football game.
Clarkson was so different from where I came from that it might as well have been on another planet. But at least I could be myself thanks to Brady. He’d grab my hand in the middle of campus without even looking to see who was around. He never felt a day of shame in his life, and he taught me how to live without it.
The vibration of my wheels hitting the cracks in the road is the only sound until my phone rings again. I know who it is – the one person who might actually be able to calm me down. The one person who I can never talk to again. If only I could hit the gas, drive the thousand or more miles to his place. Unconsciously my foot presses the accelerator. I know exactly what he would do. First, he’d make some dumb joke that would crack me up. Then he’d wrap his arms around my waist and squeeze as hard as he could or let his fingers intertwine with mine. Finally, he’d tell me how he thinks I’m the best boyfriend in the world and that I’m going to be an amazing doctor.
Sorry, Brady. Wrong on both counts.
