Family Dancing Read Free

two hills, and are suddenly in residential Northern California, the land of expensive ranch-style houses.
    As they pull into Neil’s mother’s driveway, the dogs run barking toward the car. When Wayne opens the door, they jump and lap at him, and he tries to close it again. “Don’t worry. Abbylucyferny! Get in the house, damn it!”
    His mother descends from the porch. She has changed into a blue flower-print dress, which Neil doesn’t recognize. He gets out of the car and halfheartedly chastises the dogs. Crickets chirp in the trees. His mother looks radiant, even beautiful, illuminated by the headlights, surrounded by the now quiet dogs, like Circe with her slaves. When she walks over to Wayne, offering her hand, and says, “Wayne, I’m Barbara,” Neil forgets that she is his mother.
    “Good to meet you, Barbara,” Wayne says, and reaches out his hand. Craftier than she, he whirls her around to kiss her cheek.
    Barbara! He is calling his mother Barbara! Then he remembers that Wayne is five years older than he is. They chat by the open car door, and Neil shrinks back—the embarrassed adolescent, uncomfortable, unwanted.
    So the dreaded moment passes and he might as well not have been there. At dinner, Wayne keeps the conversation smooth, like a captivated courtier seeking Neil’s mother’s hand. A faggot son’s sodomist—such words spit into Neil’s head. She has prepared tiny meatballs with fresh coriander, fettucine with pesto. Wayne talks about the street people in New York; El Salvador is a tragedy; if only Sadat had lived; Phyllis Schlafly—what can you do?
    “It’s a losing battle,” she tells him. “Every day I’m out there with my card table, me and the other mothers, but I tell you, Wayne, it’s a losing battle. Sometimes I think us old ladies are the only ones with enough patience to fight.”
    Occasionally, Neil says something, but his comments seem stupid and clumsy. Wayne continues to call her Barbara. No one under forty has ever called her Barbara as long as Neil can remember. They drink wine; he does not.
    Now is the time for drastic action. He contemplates taking Wayne’s hand, then checks himself. He has never done anything in her presence to indicate that the sexuality he confessed to five years ago was a reality and not an invention. Even now, he and Wayne might as well be friends, college roommates. Then Wayne, his savior, with a single, sweeping gesture, reaches for his hand, and clasps it, in the midst of a joke he is telling about Saudi Arabians. By the time he is laughing, their hands are joined. Neil’s throat contracts; his heart begins to beat violently. He notices his mother’s eyes flicker, glance downward; she never breaks the stride of her sentence. The dinner goes on, and every taboo nurtured since childhood falls quietly away.
    She removes the dishes. Their hands grow sticky; he cannot tell which fingers are his and which Wayne’s. She clears the rest of the table and rounds up the dogs.
    “Well, boys, I’m very tired, and I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow, so I think I’ll hit the sack. There are extra towels for you in Neil’s bathroom, Wayne. Sleep well.”
    “Good night, Barbara,” Wayne calls out. “It’s been wonderful meeting you.”
    They are alone. Now they can disentangle their hands.
    “No problem about where we sleep, is there?”
    “No,” Neil says. “I just can’t imagine sleeping with someone in this house.”
    His leg shakes violently. Wayne takes Neil’s hand in a firm grasp and hauls him up.
     
    Later that night, they lie outside, under redwood trees, listening to the hysteria of the crickets, the hum of the pool cleaning itself. Redwood leaves prick their skin. They fell in love in bars and apartments, and this is the first time that they have made love outdoors. Neil is not sure he has enjoyed the experience. He kept sensing eyes, imagined that the neighborhood cats were staring at them from behind a fence of brambles. He