Page 13 of Exquisite Things

While I’m at wrestling practice, Shams calls our new telephone, which we hardly ever use. Mother prefers letters. She begs

my brother, Liam, to write from Yale instead of resorting to lazy phone calls. She believes written communication requires

thought and intention. A phone call should be for emergencies. She only agreed to install the telephone after Father died.

She knew Liam was right when he said that with a telephone, we might have been able to say goodbye to Father. “A friend called

for you,” she says as I come home from wrestling practice, my heart still racing from the exercise, my clothes sticking to

me with sweat.

“Oh?” I ask, knowing it must be him.

“He left a phone number, but no name.” She approaches me with a piece of paper. “I asked if he goes to school with you, and

he said he doesn’t. He said he met you through Brendan and that you had offered to give him piano lessons.”

All true. I did meet Shams because Brendan took me to the Rooster.

And after I played for the patrons of the bar, after he marveled at my musicianship and said he wished he could play like me, I said I could teach him.

It wasn’t meant as a serious offer, but perhaps that’s how he took it.

I snatch the paper from her hand and try to make a getaway.

“Oliver, honey, wait,” Mother says with an ache in her voice.

I turn around. “I need to shower,” I say.

“Why don’t you shower in the locker room after practice?” she asks, without a clue as to why I might not want to be naked

as an oafish team of boys mock each other’s bodies and slap each other’s bare buttocks and, when the mood strikes, find an

opportunity to spit out what they would do if a pansy ever dared to so much as look at them. “Don’t they have showers for

you?” she continues when I don’t answer the question. I want to start my life in college, at Harvard, where there are other

boys like me congregating in Brendan’s room. Not now, when I’m still in high school, surrounded by brutes who want nothing

more than to pluck the daisies from the world before they’ve had a chance to bloom.

I have every intention of blooming, don’t I?

“The showers are filthy.” I grimace. “I much prefer washing up at home. You always keep everything so clean.”

Mother approaches me and takes my hand in hers. Her eyes still sparkle with a hint of the girl she once was, but her hands

betray the roughness of her life. The needle pricks she’s suffered while sewing hems, the cuts from the old machine she’s

forced to use because her employers are too stingy to purchase the safer new models. I kiss her hand, pressing my lips against

the deepest of her scars. I want to heal her.

“Son, I’d like to talk to you about something... sensitive,” she says.

My heart sinks lower than my chest. It feels like it’s in my groin somewhere, searching for a crevice that might allow it an escape from this body.

Someone must have told her. Perhaps it was Shams on the phone.

Did he tell her we were at a pansy club?

Or was it Brendan? No, Brendan would never.

Mother is his aunt. She would immediately call Father’s sister and tell her.

It could have been anyone, really. Jack’s name suddenly hits me like a strong wind.

If anyone would be cruel enough to break my mother’s heart, it would be The Jackal.

I can imagine it in my head. Jack Whitman pulling up to our small home in some gargantuan limousine driven by a uniformed

chauffeur. Knocking on our door. Telling my mother he’s a concerned friend who has come to warn her that her son is going

down a path of sin and damnation.

“Who... who told you?” I ask, the shake in my voice like those trills in Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse .

“I already said,” she explains, confused. “This friend you met called. He told me you were going to teach him piano.”

I hold her gaze for what feels like an hour, but the second hand on our wall clock only ticks five times.

“Son...” She bites her lip. “You’re a good boy. A dutiful boy. You’ve always made life easier for me. Keeping to your studies.

Never causing trouble.”

“I won’t cause trouble,” I promise.

“I know you won’t.” She sighs. “Sometimes I wish you would. Nothing serious, of course. But you’re a young boy. You should

be out having fun sometimes. All you do in your spare time is go to Brendan’s room to learn from him.”

“I’m confused,” I confess. “What is the sensitive matter you wanted to discuss?” I hear the desperation in my voice. If she’s

going to confront me about spending time with homosexuals—about being one—I just want to get it over and done with.

“I don’t want you working,” she declares.

“That’s—That’s what you wanted to discuss?” I ask.

She nods. “I know you hate how hard I work for you. I see the way you look at my hands. But working for you to have a good

life is what brings me joy. I want you focused on your studies and on that scholarship. You can teach people the piano later

if you like. But hopefully you’ll be doing something much more meaningful.”

“What’s more meaningful than music?” I ask.

Her eyes moisten. She offers me a pained smile. “Unfortunately, in this world, the most meaningful thing is money. I know

that’s why you offered to teach this boy. And I won’t have you taking that on yourself. I make the money in this home. Is that clear?”

I nod in relief. I thought this was going to be the moment of truth. Turned out it was just a moment of truth. “It’s clear, Mother. But I want you to know...” I pause, imagining the future I want for myself. A man

by my side. Perhaps Shams even. He’ll have to do for now to fill in the fantasy. A Harvard degree. A lucrative job in music.

Are there lucrative jobs in music? Well, it’s a dream, so let’s say yes. Children. Can we have children? In my fantasy, we

can. Not boys like me and Liam. Boys are so exhausting. We’ll have two beautiful girls, and the firstborn will be named after

Mother. Margaret. We’ll call her Maggie.

“Yes?” she says. “What do you want me to know?”

I give her a strong hug. Her body feels at once powerful and frail. She’s a bundle of contradictions, just like me. “I want

you to know that when I do graduate and start working, it will be my turn to take care of you. I’ll buy you a house on the

Cape. You love the water.”

“I do love the water. It heals the body and the soul. It inspires the imagination.” She releases herself from my embrace and

looks me in the eye. “But we have the Charles River right here, don’t we?”

I nod.

“Besides, it will be your brother’s turn to take care of me first.”

I know what my mother doesn’t know. That my brother is just like my father. If and when he makes money, he’ll spend it on

himself. Gambling and booze and girls. He’ll never take care of her. Not the way I will. “Yes” is all I say. The last thing

I want to do is break her heart.

Which I suppose is why I never call Shams back. I want to, of course. I desperately want to. But every time I pick up the

telephone, the same thoughts stop me.

What good can come of this?

What if Mother finds out?

What if we get caught?

And who is he, anyway?

I know nothing of him. Well, almost nothing. I know he has kind eyes and a sharp mind, full lips and a romantic soul. I know

enough to spend two weeks filling in the gaps of my knowledge with my own fantasies. I imagine he’s the youngest student at

Tufts University, a genius who was admitted to college at sixteen. I imagine he’s a vaudeville performer, the son of a traveling

circus star, royalty. In the absence of information, I create countless fictions.

Once two weeks have passed, I go back to Brendan and Jack’s room. I tell Mother I’m going to study, and of course she believes

me. But I know exactly where we’re going tonight. The masquerade ball. It’s been on my mind since I heard about it. I want

to see those men in women’s clothes wrestling each other.

Mother, of course, sends me with a jar of cookies. When I enter the dorm room, the whole group of boys is gathered in a circle,

mumbling and laughing. “Hello,” I say. “I’ve brought cookies.”

“Cookie, that’ll be your name!” Jack exclaims as he applies makeup to a boy whose face I can’t see. “Cookie Nookie.”

“Hilarious!’ Brendan squeals. “Now what will my name be?”

“Hilda Homely,” Jack suggests, and from behind, I see Brendan slap Jack’s back.

“It’s a compliment,” Jack insists. “A handsome man makes a homely woman.”

“What’s going on here?” I ask.

Finally, the circle disperses and reveals Shams at its center. He’s been transformed into Cookie Nookie by the rouge on his

cheeks, the mascara on his eyelashes, and the lipstick on his mouth. Pointing to Shams, Jack announces proudly, “Ladies and

perverts, I give you my latest creation, the belle of the masquerade ball, Cookie Nookie.”

Shams looks at me warmly and waves. He mouths a “hi.”

I wave back, then look around the room. Shams is not the only one in makeup. Brendan has some on too. So does Cyril. Jack,

who seems to be in charge of the transformations, has left his own face untouched. “What do you think?” Jack asks.

“It’s a start,” I say.

“That would be because I’ve just begun,” Jack snaps. “I have yet to reveal the costumes I borrowed from the theater. These

gals will be absolutely gorgeous when the illusions are complete.” Jack moves toward me. Puts a clammy hand on my cheek. His

breath smells of gin and cigarettes. “You’re next, I think.”

“Absolutely not,” I say.

“Let The Jackal paint that pretty face, baby boy.” Jack pouts.

“Leave me alone, Jack.” I move away from him, placing the jar of cookies on Brendan’s desk.