“Susie? Gina? I’d like to introduce you to Dante Quintana. He’s my boyfriend, and I love him. I know I don’t know much about love—but what I know about love, my mother and Dante taught me.”
Susie Byrd had turned on her faucet of tears. I’d expected that.
But Gina wasn’t crying, and she said, “I have two things to say. The first thing is that I don’t think that what you said is any big deal because I don’t think being gay is any big deal—but I do know that for you, it’s a very big deal, and I’ve just witnessed just how much you’re suffering over this, and so, in my eyes, you’re very brave. And the second thing I want to say is that you have better taste in men than I do.”
Which made my mother burst out into the kind of laughter I had rarely, if ever, seen or heard—which made the rest of burst out laughing.
Susie looked at my mom. “Well, you seem to be taking this pretty well, Mrs. Mendoza.”
“He’s my son, Susie. Jaime and I have always believed that a parent holds a sacred office. And we will never abdicate or resign from that office just because things get difficult.
“My sister, Ophelia, was a lesbian. My family abandoned her. But Jaime and I loved her. I happen to know that Jaime loved Ophelia more than he loved any of his siblings. And except for my husband and my children, I’ve never loved anyone as much as I loved her.”
She smiled. I’d watched her teach a class or two, and I’d seen that smile. I knew she was about to step into her role of teacher. Fully composed and alert and in charge, she said, “Gina? Susie? I’m going to tell you something that I have never, ever told anybody. I have a confession to make: I AM A HETEROSEXUAL WOMAN.”
Gina and Susie looked at my mother and then each other—then cracked up laughing. “Mrs. Mendoza, you’re a hoot.”
Even though she herself was laughing, she said, “Why is that funny? Because what I just said sounds ridiculous. But what I told you is absolutely true. I have never uttered those words. And do you know why? I’ve never had any reason to utter those words. Because no one has ever asked me. But now that I’ve said something to you that I’ve never told anybody else, what do you know about me?”
“Nothing,” Susie said.
Gina nodded. “Nothing.”
“That’s exactly what you know about me. Nothing. But the world we live in doesn’t play fair. If everybody knew that Ari and Dante were gay, then there’s a whole lot of people who would feel as if they knew all they needed to know, in order to hate them. There isn’t much I can do about what the world thinks. I’m sure I’d be judged for encouraging a behavior that some say shouldn’t be encouraged—but I’ve never lived my life according to what other people thought of me. And I’m not going to start now.”
* * *
The conversation made a turn and took a lighter tone, almost as if all of us just needed to chill out. Dante had remained mostly quiet, but it didn’t take long before Susie and Gina began to interview Dante about how our relationship began. Dante was more than happy to be interviewed. Dante loves talking about himself—and I don’t mean that in a bad way.
I enjoyed listening to them. All three of them could be funny as hell. And somewhere along the line, the interviews became an actual conversation. Mostly I watched my mother. And I knew from the expression on her face that there was a lot of happiness living inside her—even if that happiness was living there only for a moment.
My father appeared at the entrance to the kitchen. He was sweaty, and his mailman uniform looked a little tired on him. He was uncharacteristically verbal. “Well. I don’t believe I’ve seen anything quite like this in Lilly’s kitchen.” He seemed to get a kick out of what he was seeing. “Susie, how are your folks?”
“They’re fine, Mr. Mendoza. They’re still recovering hippies, but they’re moving along.”
“Well, I think being a recovering hippie is a far easier task than being a recovering Catholic.”
My mother shot him a look. So he decided to amend what he’d just said. “But, you know, there’s nothing wrong with being a hippie, just as there’s nothing wrong with being a Catholic. So, recovering or not—it’s all good.” He gave my mother a look, and I knew that look was asking, Have I redeemed myself?
“Oh, Susie, would you do me the favor of returning the books I borrowed from your father?”
“Sure thing. He said he wanted to talk to you about some novel that you both read. But I don’t remember what it was.”
“I think I know the one he’s talking about.”
My mother asked him if he was hungry, but he said he wasn’t. “I’m going to take a shower and change and just relax for a moment.”
My father disappeared down the hallway. I looked at Susie. “Your father talks books with my father?”
“All the time.”
“And you never told me?
“Why would I tell you something that I thought you already knew?”
I sat there and asked myself how many more things I didn’t know. Not that I had anyone to blame. It’s like my mother once told me. When you open up the yearbook, and you know that you didn’t show up to take your photograph, why would you be surprised to find that there’s a little cartoon that says GONE FISHING in the place of your picture? I guess I’d been gone fishing for a long time.
Mom got up and started clearing the table.
“Mom, I’ll get that.”
“Aristotle Mendoza, in the seventeen years that you have lived in this house, I have never heard you offer to do the dishes.”
I heard Gina’s harsh condemnation: “You’ve never washed the dishes?”
Susie’s judgment was even harsher: “You’re a spoiled brat.”
And I thought I might as well go with it. “Does anyone want to add any more remarks, commentaries, editorials, before I get on with this?”
“It’s not that hard to put the dishes in the dishwasher.”
“We don’t have a dishwasher.” My mother shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve never liked them. Jaime and I are the dishwashers.”
Gina and Susie looked at my mother like Oh, wow. Susie wasn’t very convincing when she said, “Well, washing dishes the old-fashioned way is better, anyway. Way better.”
Sometimes the way you say something doesn’t convince anyone—not even the person who said it. Susie and Gina gave themselves away with that look that said, You really don’t have a dishwasher?
My mom stepped in. “Ari, do you even know how to wash dishes?”
“How hard can it be?”
“It’s not hard at all,” Dante said. “I know how to wash dishes. I can show Ari the ropes.”
I actually couldn’t quite believe that Dante knew anything about washing dishes. “You know how to wash dishes?”
“Yup. When I was eight, my mother told me it was time for me to learn. She said dinner could be broken down into three parts: the cooking, the eating, and the cleaning up. She said that I was now responsible for part three. I told her that I liked part two. I got the look. I asked if I was going to be paid, and I knew in two seconds that I’d asked the wrong question. All she said was that she didn’t get paid for cooking and neither did my father—and that I wasn’t going to get one penny for cleaning up. After a while, my mom got tired of seeing me be all mopey and pouty while I did the dishes. So, one day, she put on some music, and she made me dance with her and we sang and we did the dishes together. And we had a real nice time. After that, every time I did the dishes, I put on some music and danced. It kinda worked out.”