Dinner for Four

 

By Miriam Heddy

 

A sequel to: Making Out

 

"What—you're telling me my son—what—my son is homosexual?"

 

"Gay. The word is gay nowadays." And leave it to Don to insist on precision and miss the point entirely.

 

Dad shook his head, waving around the frying pan as he talked. "Right—gay, happy—everybody's happy now. Everybody's—"

 

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am happy." Charlie crossed his arms over his chest, wondering what, precisely, had made him think that now was a good time to make this particular announcement. It hadn't been deliberate, really. He hadn't thought it out. Well, he had thought about it, hypothetically. Every once in awhile, yes, he dwelled on the problem of coming out. But it never worked out quite like this. Actually, it never really worked out at all, which is why he hadn't done it yet. He was still working on the precise set of variables, which, allowing for the messiness that Larry always insisted on, made for a very complicated equation. Dad, for instance, should've had something to drink first. A few drinks, though he wasn't quite sure how many. Don—well, Don should've been somewhere else, or maybe just here but riding the high of a successful case, rather than right in the middle of one that wasn't going very well. This—was all wrong. He'd just… reacted, which was bad. He didn't react all that well. But Dad was all but ready to propose to Amita for him at the next available opportunity, and he was this close to telling Dad he could marry Amita himself if he was so interested in her becoming Mrs. Eppes, and then suddenly, there it was. Three little words—two, actually, with the contraction.

 

And Don—Don had that expression he got when he was really, annoyed, like a rabbit who'd been expecting a carrot and got a lemon instead. And Don did not make lemonade. In fact, their one and only attempt at a lemonade stand, he'd spent hours trying to work out the precise proportion of lemons to sugar to water until finally Dad had come in and dumped half a bag of sugar into the pitcher and then Don had refused to sell it, arguing that if it took that much sugar to make it palatable, you probably shouldn't be drinking it in the first place. And Don had actually said that—"palatable"—like everybody didn't already know what that meant. But Mom had paid him a five dollars for a glass of it anyway, and made Dad buy the rest of it at vastly inflationary prices, and by the end of the summer, between that and his birthday and Chanukah, and Don chipping in from his allowance, he'd somehow, miraculously saved up for the used Trash-80 he desperately wanted that year.

 

It was easy to forget that Don was sometimes okay, especially now, when he just wanted to hit him or something.

 

"Charlie—what about—you're taking a risk here—you've got security clearance."

 

"Yes, I do. And you think I'm a risk now—because of this?"

 

"This isn't about me or what I think. This is government policy—"

 

"Which you agree with?"

 

"Which I agreed to abide by when I signed on to the FBI. Which you agreed to abide by when you agreed to—"

 

"I didn't agree. Besides which, it's 'don't ask, don't tell.'"

"Policy, not reality, Charlie. You do get that there's a difference?"

 

"Yes—of course I understand that."

 

"And you get also that you don't get to agree or disagree with reality? Dad, he does get that, right? Because—"

 

"What—you're saying you're going to tell?"

 

Wow—when did he become a five-year-old? Why was this making him feel like he was five, when this was about sex, or love, or—he didn't even know what this was about now. Don seemed to think it was a matter of National Security. On the other hand, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, since Don hadn't even thought to ask if he was sleeping with anyone. Yet.

 

"What? Of course not. Of course not—no—that's just—look, I'm just saying that you're taking a risk—"

 

"And you never take risks?"

 

"This isn't about me—"

 

"Isn't it? What—bad enough you have a freak for a brother all these years, but hey, at least he's useful."

 

"Boys—stop this—look—before you say something you'll regret. Thank God your mother isn't here to see this—What? You think she enjoyed seeing you two fighting?"

 

"We're not fighting, Dad. We're having a reasonable discussion."

 

"One of us is being reasonable," Charlie added, and the doorbell rang—another crucial moment in which he reacted, because when the doorbell rings, you answer it. "Hang on—I'll get it. Oh—Larry. Um—you—"

 

"Is this a bad time? This is a bad time, isn't it? Because I can…."

 

If Larry was right and time travel were possible, he would definitely find a way to go back and not answer the door. Because now, it was already too late, and Dad was yelling from the kitchen, "Larry? That you? Come in, come in. We were just about to sit down to—"

 

"Really, I just came over to—well, actually, I can't remember, which suggests it's probably not all that important." But Larry didn't leave; he just hung there in the doorway, swaying a little, and Don looked at Charlie, and Charlie looked at Larry. He didn't mean to, really. It was just instinct, habit, because Larry was there, calling attention to himself by almost, but not quite, disappearing. And then Don looked at Larry, and Charlie really wished he had just not looked at Larry, had not answered the door, and had not gotten up this morning thinking that today was a good day because he had an idea about Don's case that he hadn't even gotten a chance to share yet because it was still a little messy, and Don didn't react well to words like, "theoretically" and "insufficient data."

 

"Oh—no—you—Larry?" And now Don looked like he was choking on the lemon.

 

"Hmm? Don, are you—is he alright?"

 

Charlie shook his head, willing Larry to not talk—to just go with his first instinct and disappear.

 

"Charlie—" Don swallowed, hard, and Charlie actually heard the clicking sound. "Tell me you and he aren't—with him?"

 

"So, Larry, can I convince you to join us for supper?" Dad came out of the kitchen, finally, and looked around, clearly trying to figure out what he'd missed. Charlie could smell something cooking, now—which meant that Dad had decided that food would cure homosexuality, or at least keep him and Don from killing each other.

 

Dad was waiting for Larry's answer, and Larry was waiting for Charlie to tell him what to do, and Don was still processing, and so Charlie shook his head at both Don and Larry as covertly as possible, but somehow, Dad caught it anyway, and looked over at Larry, who somewhere in all this had decided to come inside and sit down on the arm of the sofa, nearly missing it entirely and reaching around with his hand to steady himself.

 

So now, pretty much everyone knew. Except Amita, which was really not a good thought to be having right now.

 

Charlie swallowed, wondering if now would be a good time to be sick. His knees felt funny, and his head was sort of light, like that time he had the fever and—

 

"Charles? Why don't you sit down."

 

"Yes. I think I'll—"

 

"Here's a chair." And Charles vaguely felt Larry leading him to a chair, and then watched as Larry moved as far away from him as was possible within the confines of the living room, keeping a wide three-foot berth from Don, whose hands were tight boney fists at his sides. At the last moment, Charlie remembered not to look at Larry, and instead fixed his attention on Mom's favorite vase on the bookshelf—the black one she'd said was "raku." He could see the seam where he'd "fixed" it when he was four. It was her favorite, and she hadn't even yelled. She just said that now he'd left his mark on it, just like the artist had, and whenever she looked at it, she'd be thinking about him. Don had added, "Yeah, she'll remember what a klutz you are." And he'd started to cry and Don had called him a baby but later, sort of apologized the way Don sometimes did, so he couldn't really tell if Dad had put him up to it.

 

He didn't cry very much nowadays, but right now, he was sort of close. And he was definitely not going to look over at Larry, even though he could peripherally see Dad stalking into the room, an oven mitt on one hand and a sharp fork in the other. The meat—whatever it was—was starting to smell a little burned.

 

"Now, now—Alan…"

 

"You—you—you? Him?"

 

Charlie didn't look up but nodded, yes.

 

"You?" Dad asked again, and Don sort of make a sound like he was trying not to laugh, and Charlie looked up and Don actually was kind of grinning.

 

He looked over and caught Don's attention and shockingly, Don grinned a little wider and mouthed, "you?" at him, and thank God Dad didn't notice.

 

"Alan, if you think about it, it's really not as bad as—well, I don't know precisely how bad you think it is, but I'm sure that it's—he is an adult, after all, and times have—"

 

"You—you want to talk about time? What about the fact that you're old enough to be his father?"

 

"Dad—Dad—I think something's burning."

 

Larry rubbed the side of his face, as if he was seriously contemplating the age difference for the first time. If Alan didn't kill him, Charlie was going to.

 

Lucky for them all, Don was right, and just then, the smoke alarm started beeping, and Dad looked up to the Heavens, rolled his eyes, sighed heavily, and then stomped into the kitchen to turn it off.

 

Charlie estimated that it would take Dad at least five minutes to get the stepladder, climb up, and get the alarm down, assuming that Dad didn't throw something at it first. Maybe a few more to talk to Mom, or God, or both. And probably another five to take care of the pan, open a window, and maybe, if they were lucky, Dad would stay in the kitchen and start in on whatever side dishes he had planned while he decided what to do to Larry.

 

In the meantime, Charlie got up on legs that, while not entirely steady, were at least not shaking anymore, and made his way to the sofa, sitting down next to Larry and daring Don to say something—anything—about it.

 

But Don just nodded, a short little shake of the head that was either approval or—something—and headed off to the kitchen. Approval, then. Maybe.

 

"Sorry—Charles—I just had absolutely no idea you were going to—"

 

"I wasn't. Honestly, I wasn't."

 

"Well, maybe this is a good thing. Getting it out into the open? Alan's a reasonable man, and Don—well, I won't say he's reasonable, but he's—I'm sure that he'll come to see that I—well, I suppose my interests aren't strictly speaking honorable. Actually, I think that was why I came by—though it might also be because I left my copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide here last week.

 

"It's my copy, actually, but you can borrow it back."

 

"Oh, good. I won't have to buy a new copy then. It's really quite fascinating, isn't it? Adams' toy theories as to the nature of parallel universes are—"

 

"Larry—why are you whispering about fictional, theoretical quantum physics?"

 

"Was I? Well, he does still have that fork." Larry giggled.

 

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

 

"I wouldn't use that particular word, Charles. But yes—it's—well, I've never been in quite this situation before. Though actually, back in—well, I suppose it was a few years before you were born, actually—I did get caught with my hand—"

 

"You two alright? You want something to drink? Larry? Dad wants to know what you want to drink." Don was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, barring the way in case Dad decided to come out, and Charlie wondered if Don had been listening this whole time, and if he was thinking about just where Larry's hand had been recently.

 

"Oh… I don't know that I should—"

 

"Choose, because you're pretty much trapped here with the rest of us," Charlie muttered, just loud enough for everybody in the house to hear.

 

"I've got beer and some kind of wine," Don added, helpful as ever.

 

"We'll both have a beer, Don. Thanks."

 

Don just nodded again, looked like he was about to say something, then shook his head and went back into the kitchen.

 

When they were alone again, Charlie turned to Larry and whispered, feeling only a little ridiculous, "Dad's going to kill you."

 

Larry just looked thoughtful. "No, I don't believe he will. He's going to feed me, certainly, and if carbon killed, well, I suppose that would be ironic. But I suspect that once he sits down and thinks about it, he'll come around. Alan is, above all else, a practical man."

 

"I can't believe I told them."

 

Larry tipped his head to the side—and Charlie felt a dangerous urge to reach out and touch him, maybe to put a hand on the back of his neck and draw him closer. There was something almost too normal and everyday about the polite distance between them, and now that it was all out, he wanted to see if it had changed something between them, and then was very much afraid that it had. He'd never again be able to put a hand on Larry's arm without it meaning something—without Don getting that strange, flat look—without his Dad looking like he didn't recognize him.

 

"This, too, shall pass, Charles." And Larry put his hand on Charlie's leg, just above his knee, even though it meant reaching over awkwardly. For a moment, Charlie just looked at his leg, and then Larry squeezed a little, and Charlie shifted over a bit until they were sitting the way he thought a couple would. He tried to remember how couples sat—was it closer than this? How had Mom and Dad sat together? It was sad, but he couldn't really remember, and he suddenly realized just how little he knew about being with someone, in public, not that this was public—not that he could ever be public, not and work for the government, though maybe it was a fair trade, and if the government was desperate enough, it would do what it always did and bend the rules. But for now, with family—this was hard enough. How was he supposed to go from being Charlie Eppes of the Brothers Eppes to being one of two men together in a very unplatonic way (though, actually, considering the age difference, an argument could be made that Plato would have approved)? He supposed he should've paid more attention when PFLAG came to CalSci for that Sensitivity Day. At the time, well over a year ago, he'd had better things to do, and assumed that he was already a little too sensitive.

 

"So, dinner, such as it is, is served."

 

Charlie looked up, startled, and realized that Dad was right there, rubbing his hands together like it was Thanksgiving and he was anticipating cutting into the turkey—or maybe that was just Larry he was thinking about dissecting. Larry—whose hand was still resting on his thigh. Did it look sexual? Did Dad even notice?

 

Of course he noticed. And it wasn't sexual. Sex was, in fact, something Charlie had a hard time imagining ever doing again.

 

Except that Larry was standing up, his hand gone, and before Charlie had a chance to miss the warmth of his touch, Larry was offering him a hand up from the sofa, and he took it. And on the way to the table to confront his Dad who looked like he recognized him after all, and the carbonized meat he knew he'd choke down anyway, and his brother the Fed who handed him a beer as he passed by and casually bumped shoulders with him, Larry never once let go.

 

 

 

The End.

 

>Feed the Muse.

Thanks to Kate for getting nervous in all the right places.