You Can Say You Knew Me When Read Free Page B

comfortable.
    Nearly thirty hours had passed since Deirdre’s call cut off my last deep sleep, but I was wide awake. Is there anything more enervating, short of chronic physical pain, than not being able to sleep when you’re clearly exhausted? I tried reading the book I’d packed and watched pages turn while words went unabsorbed. I opened up the notebook I carry around as a journal, wrote down some thoughts about brick storefronts, dirty mattresses and the dystopia of Big Savers, but then gave up when I tried to put into words what I might be feeling about the reason I had come here. It was too soon; I was too freshly in it. I tried jacking off but couldn’t shake the vehemently nonsexual cloak of death hovering in the air, not to mention the image of my grandmother in the next room. The muffled bass tone of her TV rumbled through the wall.
    Finally, I got up and phoned Woody at work.
    “I’m missing you, Wormy,” I told him. “This is pretty hard.”
    “Must be hard for you there. Is everyone really sad?”
    “Not so much sad as—I don’t know—tense. Nana’s avoiding me. Deirdre’s bossing me around.”
    “What about you, Germy?” (That’s right, Wormy and Germy, the private us.)
    “Painfully tired. I can’t sleep, I’m so traumatized by the sound of Deirdre’s cracking whip. You’d be proud of me, though. I haven’t started any fights.”
    I told him I wished he was here with me. This was sidestepping the truth: I hadn’t invited him to come along. There was no way to pull him from his fifty-hour-a-week dot-com job, went the official reasoning for his absence, but the fact was, I just couldn’t cope with a boyfriend in the midst of the family reunion. The irony of this wasn’t lost on me: While my father was alive, my boyfriends weren’t welcome.
    On my last trip back, a couple months after AJ was born, I’d been hopeful. AJ’s birth was a big deal, something to pull us, once and for all, out of the gloom of Mom’s death. Change was in the air, and spirits were high. Dad organized a big summer party, inviting friends from all corners of the past along with the whole extended family. Deirdre and Andy had married quickly, and quietly, after she got pregnant, but they’d been dating for years, and everyone was ready to celebrate. This would be the wedding reception my father had been deprived of.
    The sun blazed strong that day, the humid air thick with barbecue smoke, cut grass and honeysuckle, the yard trampled with the carefree steps of guests getting drunk. Deirdre wore the tired-but-smiling face of the new mother; Andy was fast growing into the part of proud papa, boasting that AJ’s big hands were a sign he would play for the New York Mets some day. Dad had lorded over the grill all afternoon, a whiz with spatula and tongs, his voice booming greetings across the yard, his new apron announcing him as the WORLD ’ S BEST GRANDPA .
    That night, I cornered him in his bedroom for a talk that I’d nervously rehearsed ahead of time. I told him that I had wanted to bring David—the guy I was seeing back then—to the picnic, but that I hadn’t because I didn’t think Dad would approve. My father, without hesitation, said, “You were correct.” The conviction of his voice, its done-deal tone, squeezed the air out of me. “I thought you’d changed,” I said, and he replied, “As always, I prefer that you keep your private life private.” To which I said, “Then I prefer to not come home anymore.”
    That’s the headline-news version. The actual conversation was lengthy and insulting and loud. I called him a bigot in a dozen different ways. He took great issue with my timing: I was stealing Deirdre’s spotlight ; I was ruining a joyful occasion. “You’re looking for attention,” he told me in his calm, clenched voice. “You’ve always craved attention.” I tried to notch it down, to take the anger out of my voice, to sound as rational as he did, but I wasn’t able: It hurt.