Cyclorama, page 9
Mr. Densmore gave Trey the brochures and a parental permission slip. “Will your parents be okay with you going?” he asked.
“Sure, of course, why wouldn’t they be?” said Trey.
*
Trey entered his house right as his mother was putting dinner on the table: gray lamb chops topped with dollops of green mint jelly; rice pilaf with flecks of mushroom in it; a hunk of iceberg lettuce dressed with creamy garlic dressing. Mr. Newson, president of Newson Demolition, was at the head of the table, hands on his armrests, listening to John Cody on WBBM. Mr. Newson liked listening to the news and arguing with it, liked having opinions; the fact that he had started off on Throop Street as a stock boy in his dad’s hardware store and wound up as head of one of the two biggest demolition companies in Illinois made him feel as though his opinions mattered more than other people’s. “Why’re they talking about extraditin’ that guy Demyanjook?” he asked, intentionally mispronouncing the name. “Sentence the bastard to death right here in America, or in Israel; they don’t screw around there.”
Whenever Trey arrived home, he became virtually unrecognizable to himself. Gone were the filthy jokes and the impromptu New Wave songs and porn movie sound effects; he behaved politely and formally in the manner of the Ivy League boy his parents insisted he would become. He filled goblets with ice water, and after he and his parents held hands and said grace, he handed his father the permission slip and asked him to sign it.
Mr. Newson took a pen from the pocket of his golf shirt and uncapped it.
“It’s the trip I was telling you about,” Trey said.
Mr. Newson squinted at the document and made a vague motion. His wife fetched him his reading glasses. “What kind of school trip starts on a Friday but doesn’t end until Tuesday?” he asked.
“The New York trip, like I said,” Trey told him.
“New York?” Mr. Newson looked at his wife. “Have you heard anything about this?”
Thao Newson shook her head.
Trey affected exasperation. “It’s one of the highest honors you can win at the school. We’ll see the UN, the Empire State Building, the Met Museum.”
“And where’ll you be staying?” Mr. Newson asked.
“The Statler Hilton, like it says.”
“Who’s payin’?”
“It’s a school trip,” Trey said. “Every year Mr. Densmore takes his top student.”
“So just the two of you? Just you and Mr. Drama Teacher for four nights in a hotel in New York?”
“Of course not; I’ll have my own room. Mr. Densmore’ll be in the other with his wife.”
“His wife? He has a wife?”
“Yes, Dad. Also a son.”
Trey had long known that his family suspected he might be gay, though no one ever specifically asked if he was. He knew this suspicion was the unstated motivation behind the questions he fielded about who he would take to this or that dance, behind his dad’s rage whenever a relative bought Trey a paint set or a Broadway record for his birthday, whenever Trey wore a pink polo shirt or played his Flock of Seagulls or INXS albums. And he knew it was why, on his fourteenth birthday, the worst birthday of his life, his brothers had dragged him to an acrid strip club in Lakeview. They had gone to a back room and tied him to a chair while a stripper named Cookie bopped his face with her boobs, then unzipped his pants and kept spitting in an ice cube and sucking it out, all the while his brothers laughed hysterically, tucked bills into her G-string, and shouted, “More ice cube tricks!” Until Trey, trying to free himself, fell to the ground, still tied to the chair, and Cookie said, “I think that’s about all the time you paid for, guys.”
Probably he was gay. He knew he was in theory, but the specifics made him want to retch. Imagining guys naked grossed him out; seeing them naked was even worse—so much so that, after swimming class, he avoided the showers altogether and put his pants on over his wet bathing trunks. And as far as sex was concerned, that anal stuff was just too repulsive to contemplate. Calvin had once said that there were people into “anal sex” and people into “banal sex,” which was when you “do it with a tree.” Maybe he just wasn’t into sex—anal, banal, or otherwise. He felt attracted only to ill-fated movie stars of both sexes: Sal Mineo, Montgomery Clift, Jean Seberg. And even then his erotic fantasies, such as they were, never really got past the point of dance routines.
What pissed Trey off most about the fact that his father seemed ready to crumple up the New York permission slip was that his parents cared so much about how others saw him while remaining completely blind to the life he actually led. They worried about how it would look for him to go to New York with Densmore but had no clue how often he drove his mother’s Audi wasted, hurling beer cans and pipes out the window whenever he saw a cop. They had no idea about the allowance money he spent on tests and essays. On the occasions when he passed out at cast parties and Carrie or Amanda brought him home, the only thing that seemed to matter to his parents was that he was with a girl. He hadn’t understood why his mom and dad let him act in shows at the Annex until he realized it was because he always played characters who had girlfriends or wives.
“Nothin’ doing,” Mr. Newson said. “You and Mr. Drama Teacher in a hotel in New York? Nothin’ doing.”
“Jesus.” Tears came fast to Trey’s eyes. “Did you listen to anything I said? Mrs. Densmore is coming too; so are other people.”
“Who else?” asked Mr. Newson.
“My girlfriend,” Trey said.
“Whose girlfriend?” asked Mr. Newson.
“Mine,” said Trey. “I was going to bring her over on Sunday so you could meet her, but apparently you don’t care.”
“Wait, which girlfriend? What’s her name?”
“Oh, don’t act like you’re all interested now.” Trey slid his plate off the table, tossed its contents into the trash, and stomped upstairs to his room, where he blasted the Go-Go’s and danced furiously until he was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Mrs. Newson stood in the hallway, one hand cupping the other. She looked contrite. “Is it too late?” she asked.
“Is what too late?” asked Trey.
“This girl. Inviting her to dinner.”
Trey flopped down on his bed, grabbed a pillow, and hugged it. “I guess I could ask,” he said.
“Your father and I talked about it. We know we have been harsh. We would like to meet this girl.”
Yeah, Trey thought, he wanted to meet her too.
*
“Why would you even want to go?” Judith asked after rehearsal when half the cast had gathered at a table at Yesterday’s. “Seriously, Trey, if you have such a stiffy for New York, your parents would take you, wouldn’t they?”
“But that’s the problem: it would be with my parents,” said Trey.
“Better than with Tyrus,” said Judith.
“No,” said Trey. “Worse, so much worse. I don’t want to get into it; I just really need to go.”
“He does,” said Rob. “He does need to go.” He turned to Trey. “You’ll go and you’ll take detailed notes—everything Densmore says, everything he does. Reconnaissance. We need to gather as much evidence as we can.”
“But my parents won’t let me go if I don’t have a girlfriend,” said Trey. “They only said yes because I told them I was bringing a girlfriend.”
“Bring Kathy Ho-Ho,” said Rob. “Your folks like her, right?”
Trey didn’t know if Rob was making fun of him or if he actually thought Kathy Ho existed. “Kathy’s out of the picture,” said Trey. “Forget her; I need to find someone else. She doesn’t need to be my girlfriend forever, just at Sunday dinner so my parents’ll get off my ass.”
Calvin looked around the table. “No takers?” he asked. “Hell, I’ll do it if no else is woman enough. Get me a dress, a wig, a pair of size fourteen double-E high heels, and twenty bucks, and I’ll be your girlfriend all through Sunday dinner, Trey. Gimme a hundred bucks and a bottle of Ronrico and we can start talking extras and fringe benefits.”
“This is serious,” said Trey.
“I am serious,” Calvin said. “I can seriously use the cash. What’s the matter? Don’t your folks like brown people?”
“No, actually, they don’t,” said Trey. “They don’t like brown people or Jews or homosexuals or any people other than white people and maybe Vietnamese people. It’s seriously fucked-up; that’s why I’ve gotta get outta there.” He turned to Eileen. “Come on. How about it?”
“Me?” Eileen asked.
“You’d be perfect,” said Trey. “You like talking to people’s parents, you go to church. You can talk to my dad and my brothers about football.”
Eileen put her arm in Rob’s. “I wish I could, Trey-Trey,” she said. “I’m just involved with too many people already.”
“But someone has to step up,” said Rob. “We need to know what actually happens on these trips, what kind of shit Densmore’s into; otherwise, it’s all just rumor and innuendo.” He fixed his gaze across the table. “Nagorsky?”
Judith gave him the finger.
“Well, really, why not?” Trey said to Judith. “You’re the best actress here—no offense to anyone else. You can play a fifty-year-old mom in Amsterdam; you could play my girlfriend. How hard could that be?”
“I met your parents that one time; they hated me.” Judith imitated Mr. Newson: “ ‘Did you enjoy Masada? Do you get gifts all eight nights of Hanukkah? Do you listen to Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond? That’s real music.’ ”
Trey looked desperately at the people around the table, then at random waitresses. He seemed on the verge of tears. “Really?” he said. “No one can help? Really?”
“So,” Fiona interjected, “how old is this bird supposed to be, anyway?”
“Which bird?” Trey asked.
“The bird you’re supposedly having it off with so your parents don’t think you’re a nancy boy,” said Fiona.
“It doesn’t even matter,” Trey said.
“Is it that important to you?” asked Fiona. “To travel to New York with that grotty little man?”
“It is,” Trey said, “and if you ever meet my parents, you’ll get it. Every second I spend with them, I feel like I’m gasping for air.”
“Is there some reason why you’ve asked everyone except me?” asked Fiona.
“Well, yeah: because you are fucking intimidating,” Trey said.
“Intimidating?” Fiona asked. “Am I?”
“A bit,” Judith said.
“Of course you are,” said Trey. “You’re gorgeous, you speak eight zillion languages. How would my parents believe I was dating you?”
Fiona lit a cigarette and took a drag.
Trey watched her. And as he considered why his parents would never believe Fiona was his girlfriend, he realized something: no, Fiona would never date the Trey he really was, the one who paid for exams and copied test papers and shat water whenever he was nervous and fantasized about James Dean in East of Eden. But the Trey his parents wanted him to be would have a girlfriend exactly like her.
“Just tell me when and where,” Fiona said.
Judith grabbed Fiona’s arm. “You’re not seriously considering doing this.”
Fiona shrugged. “Why not, love? It’s the only decent thing to do.”
*
Trey didn’t call Fiona before the Sunday dinner. He feared that if they spoke on the phone, she would find some reason to cancel. But the moment he pulled into her turnaround, she was heading down her steps in a trench coat and a pink Borsalino that matched the umbrella she was twirling.
“Lovely car,” she said. “Nice and sporty, isn’t it? A good way to pick up a bird and make an impression.” She turned on the radio and fiddled with the knob, settling on a college station at the left end of the dial that was playing Black Flag. She turned it up; Trey turned it back down. “That’s not the music my girlfriend would listen to,” he said.
“Righto.” Fiona twisted the station dial all the way to the right where WGCI was playing Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five.
“Not that either,” said Trey.
“Christ,” said Fiona, “what sort of bird do you think I am? Am I supposed to be listening to operas and symphonies and shite of that nature?”
“Exactly,” said Trey. “ ‘Shite of that nature.’ Can’t you just be quiet and polite for a few hours? Then you can go back to being who you are, whoever that is.”
Fiona folded her arms. “If you insist. I haven’t the slightest idea why you want this trip so badly. If you were my brother, I’d tell you to sod it. But I shall do my best.”
Trey sighed, and mouthed “Thank you.” As he stopped at a traffic light, he watched Fiona flicking ash out the window. He imagined that, to anyone driving by, they would look like a beautiful couple.
*
The beautiful couple were among the last to arrive at the house. The Newsons had brought the tents and the picnic tables out of the garage. Apparently, they had invited everybody—the biggest crowd to gather here since Trey’s confirmation, which had been pretty much ruined when his brothers had taken turns shoving each other into the pool while they were still wearing their suits and their father had bellowed that if they didn’t knock it off, he’d throw a lawn mower into the deep end and electrocute the lot of them.
There was a green tarp over the pool tonight—too early in the year for swimming. Guests were on the lawn, drinking beer and snacking on the chips and Roquefort dip that Mrs. Newson had arranged in bowls on picnic tables topped with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths. Music blared from the speakers: Mr. Newson’s favorite, Frank Sinatra. The men wore blazers and ties; the women wore pantsuits—as if no one had changed after church.
Trey and Fiona walked hand in hand along the house’s curved side path until they reached the lawn. His brothers were here—two with girlfriends, one with a pal from high school; so were Trey’s aunt Ming and his uncle Wayne and their three kids. Mr. Newson’s brother, Billy-Boy, who wasn’t really his brother but had been his best friend in the service, was here with his second wife and her two sons. There were neighbors, high school buddies, colleagues from Newson Demolition. Mr. Newson was working the grill. “Two burgers up. Who wants ’em?” he shouted. “Someone better get on these dogs; they’re ready to go.”
Trey and Fiona circulated, distributing handshakes and hugs like they had just returned from a honeymoon. Trey’s brother Fuckin’ Stuart—who, now that he was in his senior year at Lake Forest College, came in only about one weekend per month—was in the company of yet another new girlfriend whom he seemed to be auditioning for the role of wife. Kristy was a speech language pathology student who had worked as a Honey Bear cheerleader for the Chicago Bears. Fiona told Kristy that she loved her handbag and asked where she had gotten it, and Kristy told her that the Bears’ quarterback, Bob Avellini, had given it to her. Fiona said it was “smashing,” at which point Fuckin’ Stuart wondered aloud how “smashing” the gift would be after he had smashed the thing in Avellini’s fuckin’ face. He told Fiona he liked her accent and asked where she was from, and she said London. He asked her which part and she told him Mayfair, but he didn’t know where that was, so he asked if anybody in her family played rugby and she said no, all those men rolling around in the mud—it really seemed just like ritualized homosexuality, didn’t it? She said she had no problem with men wanting to bugger each other, but why didn’t they just do it instead of pretending they were really doing something else? Trey pinched Fiona hard—“Jesus,” he said—but Fuckin’ Stuart cracked up. “Fiona is fuckin’ awesome, man,” he told Trey. “Where the fuck’d you find her?”
“Walking the streets in Piccadilly,” Fiona said.
Will Newson was up from Champaign-Urbana with Micki Lanza, the girl he’d been dating for the past year and a half; he’d met her at a frat party. Will and Micki were holding plastic plates and feeding each other forkfuls of side dishes. Trey introduced Fiona to Will and Micki, and Will, who seemed to want to impress Micki with his newfound maturity, complimented Fiona on her accent. He asked where she was from and, when she said London, then Mayfair, he asked what she thought about the war in the Falklands. Fiona said war was just phallic role-play; the only thing countries cared about was who had the bigger gun between their legs. Trey gasped, but Will cupped Trey on the shoulder and said Fiona was a “keeper.” “You better make sure not to let this one go, bro,” he said.
Keith Newson hadn’t brought a date to the party; he had brought Ricky Tate. Keith was managing D.B. Kaplan’s, a deli in Water Tower Place, and living in an apartment near Wrigley Field with Ricky; all the Newsons said Ricky was a bad influence on Keith, even though whenever cops pulled over Ricky and Keith, they always held Keith but let Ricky go.
“Whoa there,” Keith said as Trey tried to swerve Fiona away from him. “Aren’t me and Rick gonna at least get an introduction?”
Keith told Fiona she had an awesome accent and asked where she was from. She said London, then Mayfair, and since neither Keith nor Ricky knew where that was, Ricky asked for her opinion of the Rolling Stones. Fiona said they were “a pack of vile little gits” who “ponced about onstage as if they were having a wank.”
Keith laughed and asked why such a “classy English broad” would hang around a “lowlife” like his brother.
“Because Trey is bloody good in the sack,” Fiona said. “Isn’t that why you and Ricky are together? Or are you just good pals?”
“Aww, man,” Keith said, laughing, “Lemme shake this girl’s hand.”
Trey, who had already almost had three heart attacks, left Fiona to fend for herself while he went back into the house, ostensibly to use the john. Instead, he went up to his bedroom, closed the door, and looked from his window down to the backyard. Fiona was hugging his mother and shaking hands with guests, and for the first time Trey sensed this actually might turn out all right. Although he had never felt as attracted to any girl as he did toward, say, John Garfield, he did like Fiona, or at least whoever she was pretending to be, who seemed to perfectly complement the person he was pretending to be. He was halfway toward a thought of asking Fiona if she might want to date for real when his stomach started gurgling. His father was heading toward Fiona—greasy towel over a shoulder, burger flipper in one hand.
