I’m sure I’ve been here before. I’m absolutely sure of it. Surely I’m recalling this in preparation for moving on. Why else? It’s almost like Mama left just yesterday. John, you were there. Where are you now?
*
Nothing good comes from a phone call at three a.m.
In a way, I had been dreading this call for most of my adult life. I suppose I did more than my share of pre-grieving over both of my parents’ deaths. Given that Mama was almost forty-two and Daddy was forty-eight when I was born, by the time I hit my mid-twenties, they had each passed their own statistical years of demise according to the actuarial tables. Daddy used to joke that he would never see either of his children graduate from college. When Kit and I each passed that milestone, my father’s lament gave way to my mother’s: “I’ll never live to see your grandchildren.”
As a gay man in his late twenties in the late ’70s, not only was I not in a relationship, gay or otherwise, but it was not socially accepted or legally allowed for gay men to marry, much less adopt children. I was only just coming to terms with the idea that I would never marry a nice girl, go to law school, buy a nice house and a Ford Country Squire station wagon, and have two adorable WASP kids. In other words, I had not yet spoken, to myself or to anyone else, about the love that, especially then, had only just begun to dare speak its name. “Out” was a viable concept at the time, but I would not be out for several more years.
With that reality in place and not destined to change, my mother’s well-intentioned hints about a girlfriend and future grandchildren began to chafe me, like a tight dog collar being gently but constantly pulled against my neck. Nothing would have pleased me more than to have sired children, but making that promise seemed inappropriate, much like the hints Mama increasingly served up at family dinners.
Toward the end of a larger family gathering that included Aunt Cam, Uncle Lee, and Aunt Virginia, Mama began what started as a harmless discussion of Aunt Virginia’s many grandchildren. There was no topic that pleased Aunt Virginia more and she could, literally, go on for hours about her brood’s brood, which then numbered seven and counting. A lover of children but never a mother herself, Aunt Cam could attend to this familiar conversation for a polite interval, but then found herself inattentive and later resentful that Aunt Virginia couldn’t read the room. “Our interest has left building,” Aunt Cam used to say, afterwards.
Mama was solicitous, and encouraged anecdotes, keepsakes, and pictures from her doting sister. In her element, my Aunt Virginia, at the apex of her grandmotherly indulgence, often turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, Drew. You’ll find the right girl, and when you do, you’ll give your mama handsome grandchildren, just like you!” I smiled through my irritation and resignation, bit my lip, and smiled some more.
This particular evening, for reasons that were not and never will be clear to me, Mama ignored my usual signals of discomfort and pressed on, first with a litany of the young women I’d dated, starting with high school. “What was wrong with that adorable Katie Keegan in your high school class? No, really. She was adorable and god knows she adored you. Her mama and I talked about it at the Kroger after you two broke up. A complete mystery—to both of us.”
I glared. Apparently, there were no words that would derail this train of thought. Mama, despite her intellect and gift for nuance, failed to realize that, once again, this dog just wasn’t going to hunt.
In fairness, I had done a masterful job leading the observant person to the same conclusion: Carter just hadn’t found the right girl yet. I had dated in earnest, half to see if the “right girl” could exorcise my intense and sexually charged feelings for men, and half to assure that no one else would guess that those feelings even existed. I even briefly talked marriage with a girl whom I truly loved but could not, despite all efforts, uncover any lust for.
Mama continued the litany of my romantic endeavors: Katie; followed by Leslie from my first year at the University of Virginia; then Kelly from summer break between first and second year; Amelia, whom even Mamma referred to as a “fling” because she had “big bosoms”; Marsha from third year, a set-up at Winter Formals; and finally, Becca, who really was a love of my life, and who, for a brief moment, made me think being gay was, as I had prayed for years, “just a phase.”
Aunt Cam, either feeling my pain, her own boredom, or both, jumped in, “Whatever happened to Becca? Pretty girl. From the pictures, I mean.”
“Of course, from pictures. None of us actually met her. But nonetheless a beautiful girl, Cam. Beautiful,” Mama remarked, shooting Aunt Cam a look that said, “We don’t talk about her anymore.” Mama added quickly, as if reading the cause of death from a chart, “Broke Drew’s heart.” And then, to no one in particular, she said, “Didn’t she?”
The table quieted. There was no merciful place to take the conversation.
Even Daddy seemed relieved and, in an effort to put the conversation out of its misery, asked Uncle Lee, “How’s tax season coming?” Grateful for the change of topic and ready to look enthralled as Uncle Lee began his answer, I thought I had survived the inquisition once again. And then Mama, with no malice but an equal lack of restraint, said, “Well, Virginia, I guess I’ll just have to be happy to enjoy your grandchildren. I don’t expect them from this one anymore,” she said, nodding toward me.
I’m not sure what came over me. It felt like rage, fortified by fear. I think I read my mother’s resignation as a comment about my sexual orientation. Maybe I thought she had figured it all out. Whatever the reason, my outburst wasn’t to be stopped.
“You want grandchildren, Mama? I can give you grandchildren. What color do you want? Black, white, yellow, green? You want diversity, Mama? I can arrange for African babies, Chinese babies, Turkish, Italian. Name your pleasure, Mama. Just give me nine months’ notice. Come on, Mama, what’ll it be?” And just like that, I completed the most hurtful sentences I would ever say to my sweet mother.
“That’s enough,”
My father rarely raised his voice, but it rang through the room and silenced the slaughter.
I looked over to see Mama, horrified, and also aware she had pushed too hard, been too cavalier. Her eyes were red and brimming with tears, but she held them back out of a mixture of anger and shame and pride.
“That’s enough.” Dad stood, picked up his dinner plate and turned toward the kitchen.
“You’re right. It’s really enough. Excuse me.” I folded my napkin and placed it on the dinner table between two empty wine goblets. Reaching for my plate, I added, “Everyone go in to the living room. I’ll clear.”
Everyone, save Mama, rose and left, eager to escape the tension that floated over the room like the smoke from the extinguished dinner candles.
Mama, never one to run, helped me clear the table, each of us saying nothing, but understanding the limits of what could be said moving forward.
Comments