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“You’re not shaming sex workers in these meetings either, Foote. You hear me?” Rhonda growled, sending a small slice of cucumber flying out of her mouth.
“I have some clothes in the attic you’re welcome to, baby,” my mother said, arching a mischievous eyebrow.
“I’m not putting on a dress. I’m not a drag queen, I’m not trans, I’m gay. I’m just gay,” I said, shooting my mother a death glare.
“I heard onthe Facebookthat gender is fluid,” Dottie pointed out, her face still buried in her phone. “There’s nothing wrong with it, baby.”
“Of course, there’s nothing wrong with it. Obviously, I know that.”
“What are these fluids they’re talking about?” Myrna asked Bernice.
“Gender fluidity,” I said, still glaring at Dottie.
“I sure hope you don’t get your fluids all over your pretty new dress, sugar,” Elmyra said.
I gagged. “Leave my fluids out of this. Jesus Christ, why is everyone hellbent on making me into a drag queen?”
“It could be fun,” my mother said, a sly smirk hiding in the corners of her mouth. “I could braid your hair. Show you how to do your makeup.” Her eyes widened as she held her hand to her chest, feigning an epiphany. “Just think of all the things we missed out on when you were growing up. Nail polish. Pedicures. Oh my goodness, purses. Think of all the purses.” She wiped an imaginary tear from her cheek as Elmyra squeezed her knee in support. “I can walk you into womanhood.”
“The only place you’ll be walking is down to Maple Ridge Retirement Village if you don’t end this shitshow now. I’ll pack your bags myself.”
Elmyra was still staring at my mother with awe in her eyes. “That was beautiful, Cat. I’m proud of you. Daughters truly are a gift from God. You sort of have one already,” she said, giving me a genuine smile, “but there’s just something about that mother-daughter bond you don’t get with a son. Take my Edith, for instance. I taught her how to cook. I took her to praise dance classes. I didn’t get to do any of that with my son. He just lays around all day like the world owes him something.”
“Your son is a Siamese cat named Nebuchadnezzar,” Mom pointed out.
She nodded. “And he just sits there day-in, day-out, waiting for handouts. Table scraps, belly scratches. He just takes and takes and takes. Edith never did that.”
“She takes quite a bit of crystal meth,” Dottie said with narrowed eyes. “Took my television set and sold it to the pawn shop when she was house-sitting for me. Took Sheriff Gold’s car out of his driveway two months back. Drove it down to Houston and sold it for parts.”
Elmyra cleared her throat. “Yes, well, we all have our burdens. Best we can do is lift it up to the Lord.”
“Amen,” Bernice and Myrna said in unison.
I groaned, setting my plate on the coffee table and leaning back against the sofa. “How the hell did we get to crystal meth and stolen cop cars?”
“Oh, Catalina, sugar, is his memory going, too?” Elmyra said. “Bless your heart. First thehomosexualthing, then you find out he’s a card-carrying liberal, on top of the oral cancer—”
“Oral cancer?” my mom asked. I shook my head and shot her a look, pleading for her to just let that river run.
“And now our little Kent is suffering from memory loss to boot. Darlin’, you’re just having a time of it, ain’t ya?” She reached out, taking mom’s hand, and I smirked as she squirmed at the feeling of Elmyra’s lotion rubbing into her skin. “You really ought to come back to church. We can pray it through. Get everything right as rain for you again.” She glanced back at me. “We won’t pray for the homosexual part. Your Mom’s made it clear enough that you don’t want that. Still, it’d be lovely to see you back. I’m sure Pastor Collins would be thrilled to have you.”
“That name isn’t welcome in this house,” Mom interjected, her face growing redder by the second.
“Pastor?” I looked at Mom. “Please tell me she means Marty or Gray. I mean, it can’t be Gray unless he’s living some secret, undercover life where he moonlights as a preacher, but …” My mother’s face sank, as did my heart. “He can’t!” I stood up, sending cucumber sandwiches flying across the living room floor. The thought of that man leading any congregation, much less my father’s, struck up fury in my soul like never before. I could easily see Trevor leading a Klan rally, but a church?
“Well honey, what’s wrong?” Elmyra turned to me, reaching her oily hand in my direction. I pulled away before she could touch me. “He’s a lovely enough man. You two used to be friends. What in the world happened?”
“Elmyra,” my mother warned.
“I just don’t understand what Trevor—”
Mom leaped up from her seat and pointed her finger at her. “Elmyra Foote!” The room went silent, and the color drained from Elmyra’s face. “We don’t talk about him. Not in this house, and not in front of Kent. I won’t say it again.” Her voice was sterner than I’d ever heard it. “Now.” She sat back down and swept her hands down the front of her skirt to straighten it out. “Where were we?”
When the meeting was over, Rhonda and I made our way to the porch. Once outside, Rhonda nodded at me as she pulled two Marlboros from her pack. I flinched as she struck a match, resisting the urge to curl myself into a ball on the floor from the familiar scent of sulfur. Rhonda took a drag of the cigarette and held it out for me.
I hadn’t smoked in ten years, but after that meeting, I gave in to temptation. I pulled smoke into my lungs and lifted my head to the sky as I exhaled. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“Just don’t let your momma see it. That woman scared the hell out of me in there.”
