Page 30 of Exquisite Things

“Hello.” Azalea gave us a few hours of advice on how to talk to callers. She is a nurse after all. A professional giver of

care. She told us to ask gentle questions. Open questions. To listen actively. Never judge. Clarify by summarizing what they

said. Ask if they’re thinking of harming themselves. Call for professional help if we suspect a caller is at risk of suicide.

“Hello, is anyone there?”

Deep sighs on the other end. Not the heavy breathing of a prank caller. The desperate exhalations of a person in need.

“Hello, this is the queer helpline. May I help you?”

Finally: “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” Her voice is weary.

“My name is Bram. What’s yours?” No response. Azalea told us to open up. To make them feel they’re not alone. “I’m gay. Hasn’t

been too easy for me. How about you?”

“I’m not gay. I’m a girl.”

“There are gay girls out there. Plenty of them.”

“Black butch girls like me?” Her tone dares me to contradict her. “Haven’t met one yet. I don’t fit in anywhere. Don’t have

no one. Don’t even go to school no more. They put me in an educationally subnormal school. I could teach the teachers. Every

other kid in that school was Black. What does subnormal even mean?”

“Apparently, it means Black.”

She chortles. “No, really though.”

“I don’t know exactly what it means, but it sounds a lot more fun than being normal.”

That gets a real, honest-to-goodness laugh. I feel my chest rise with pride. For giving her a tiny moment of joy. I remember something Lily said to me. I think maybe it might help her too. “Don’t apologize for being unique.”

“I didn’t. Apologize.”

“No, you’re right. You didn’t.” I’m afraid I’m losing her. “Do you have a place to sleep?”

No answer.

“Are you considering harming yourself or...” I can’t even say the words. Azalea told us to ask about suicide. But she didn’t

say when to ask. Have I rushed things? Is that what I do? I did it with Oliver. Jumped right into loving him. Did it with

Lily too. Latched on to her and haven’t let go.

“No. I swear.” Her voice chokes up a little. “Not even after my mum died. I want to be here. I just want here to be somewhere

different, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I try to erase any judgment from my voice. Speak from pure empathy. “I’m sorry about your mother. How did she...”

Stupid question. I don’t finish asking it. Why would she want to relive something so awful?

“Officially, cancer. Unofficially, murder.” She huffs angrily. “Every doctor who saw her told her she just needed to change

her diet. Said she was having stomachaches because she ate rich foods and didn’t get enough sleep. By the time someone took

her seriously, it had spread all over her body.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.” I think she’s crying. “You didn’t kill her though, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I think this is the right time to ask: “What’s your name?”

A long pause. “Maud. No last name. Don’t want that man’s name.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t use my father’s last name either.” All the pain of being his son comes rushing back to me.

“I’m sorry too.”

“You live with him?”

“Not any longer. Only reason I didn’t leave sooner is for her. Mum wasn’t strong like I am. She let other people walk all

over her. I’ll never be like that.”

I want to reach through the receiver. Give her a hug. Tell her I understand. At least I think I do. “Are you in London? You

could come by the house. Brixton is full of all kinds of lesbians. The Rebel Dykes are just down the street. You’ll see.”

“Not sure I’m a rebel dyke.” She chortles again. A half laugh that charms me. “They sound cool though.”

“You don’t have to be anything or anyone. Except yourself. Will you remember the address? It’s on Chaucer Street.” I give

her the address. “ Flee from the crowd, and dwell with truthfulness. ”

“Sorry?”

“No, I’m sorry. That was from a Chaucer poem.”

“I don’t do poetry. I’m educationally subnormal, remember?” She giggles. She sounds like the kid she probably is. “But if

I were in a proper classroom, I’d say it sounds like what Chaucer was saying there is fuck what other people think and be yourself .”

“Exactly.” I can hear Lily dancing on the second story. Her steps like a drumbeat. I can faintly hear the song she plays.

Louisa Marks. “6 Sixth Street.” Tell me, tell me, tell me, baby, tell me why? “Maud, are you all right tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You’re not alone?” Azalea told us these were three very important words.

But she told us to say it as a statement of fact.

I just posed it as a question. I’m afraid I messed up.

I say it again. With complete sincerity.

With utter belief that these three words will always be true: “We’re not alone. ”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll come by. Maybe.”

“You can also call again. Between the hours of five and seven every weekday evening.”

“I know. I’m holding your leaflet right now.”

“Maud, you’re—”

She hangs up before I can tell her she’s not alone again.

It’s on the tenth of March that the idea hits me. Two things happen that morning.

The first: Lily plays Donna’s A Love Trilogy album while we make soft-boiled eggs with slices of toast for breakfast. “Could It Be Magic” fills the house. Lily’s favorite

song of all time. I feel Oliver’s presence in the room.

Spirits move me, whirling like a cyclone in my mind .

I feel that in my core. He’s been the cyclone in my mind for over fifty years now. Then she sings the chorus.

Could this be a magic at last?

The question feels like a dare. Like Donna Summer herself is asking me if I’m ready to finally have the magical life I’ve

always dreamed of.

Another thing happens. Poppy barges into the house just as we’re finishing up breakfast. Asks if Lily has heard the news.

Poppy says that the BBC is going to re-air A Change of Sex . More than that. They’ll be airing two new chapters about Julia’s gender transition.

The news isn’t enough to stop Lily from sewing. “That’s great, or maybe it’s not.”

“It’s one of us on the telly. No one’s afraid of the people they see on the telly.”

Lily shrugs. “I see Thatcher on the telly, and I’m terrified of the woman.”

Poppy cackles at that.

Lily does a chilling Iron Lady impression. “ People are really rather afraid that this country might be swamped by people with a different culture. ”

“She really said that, didn’t she?” Poppy shakes her head in disgust. “Okay, Thatcher is evil, but at least now we have a

party that’s truly on our side.”

“Are they?”

“They say so, at least. I think maybe things are changing, finally.”

“Finally maybe.”

And then Poppy says the words that send chills through me: “I think this is our time, Lily.”

I don’t hear what Lily says next. My mind turns into a haze when Poppy says that this is our time.

Isn’t that what I promised Oliver I’d wait for? Our time. An age when we could love freely and openly. Without fear or shame. Isn’t this that time? I have a real home. A beloved mother.

I can dress how I want in the streets. I can dance alongside other freaks and queers at night. This is it. A moment like this

may never come again.

I knock on Lily’s workroom door late that night. She tells me to come in. I find her frustrated. Unable to get the dress she’s

working on just right. She’s a perfectionist. Even when she’s making dresses for people she hates. This one is for some society

ball.

“Can I ask you something?” I hear the shake in my voice.

She takes her hands off the sewing machine. Waves me over. I pull a chair next to her. “What’s going on, kid?”

“There’s someone I once... well, I know we said we’d never discuss our pasts again, but I think that’s because our pasts are painful, right?” She waits for me to say more. “But there’s one part of my past that’s beautiful.”

“You’ve been in love?”

I nod. “He doesn’t live here though. But I was thinking...” I bite my lower lip. I can never turn back once I ask. “Well...

Now that we have this big place, maybe he could visit for a holiday. Meet you. Maybe I could see him again and know if what

we once had is still real.”

“Where does he live?”

I can’t bring myself to say he’s in Buenos Aires. It seems too absurd. She’ll wonder how and why he ended up there if she

meets him. There will be too many questions. I tell myself it’s not a lie to speak of the Oliver I knew. Not the one who leaves

me cryptic classified ads. “Boston. I was visiting the city with a family I was a tutor for, and we met there. It didn’t last

long, but it meant more to me than any relationship I’ve had.” A beat. “Until you.”

“Boston’s not very close, but if he makes the trip, he’s welcome here for a holiday.” She smiles. “What took you so long to

tell me about him?”

“I don’t know.” Of course I know. I’m afraid I’ll say something that might reveal the truth. “What about you, Lily? Have you

ever been in love?”

She nods. “Only once, sweetie.” She shakes her head. “But it wasn’t a good love. There’s good love, the kind that lets you

shine in its glow. And there’s destructive love that makes you less of who you are. That pushes you into a place of fear.

I did love him, but he was destructive.”

“Did he—” I don’t want to ask the question.

“He never laid a hand on me.” She knew precisely what I was going to ask.

“He was more destructive to himself than anyone else. And I suppose he brought me down with him. Lots of drinking. Eventually, the drugs killed him. Which saved me, I suppose. Nothing like burying the man you watched overdose to shock you into sobriety.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She pushes my chin up. “No boo-hoo backstories, remember?”

“Yeah, but still...”

I realize something about Lily. She sees all that’s wrong with the world. Doesn’t ignore it. But she refuses to let the awfulness

define her. I think it’s her knowledge of the brutality around us that makes her work so hard to provide light.

I don’t leave a classified ad for Oliver right away. I decide to wait two more weeks. The first day of spring feels like a

symbolic day to summon him. That’s what this feels like. A summoning of the past into what is now my present. I race out the

door to place an ad in the newspaper.

“Where you going, Bram?” Lily calls to me from the living room. She’s sitting on the floor. Cutting fabric rolls into manageable

pieces. “Come here.”

I enter sheepishly. “I—” I’ve already gotten her permission to invite Oliver for a “holiday.” But telling her about our covert

way of communicating with each other through newspapers would invite too many questions.

“Happy New Year.” She looks up from her fabrics. A warm smile on her face.

“What’s that?”

“It’s your new year, isn’t it? Nowruz. First day of spring.”

“That’s right. It is.” It’s been so long since I’ve been around any of my own people. So long since I’ve celebrated Nowruz properly. The last time must have been before my father sent me off to London for boarding school. Lifetimes ago.

“Nowruz means new day, right?” She knows she’s right. She’s done her research. “Thought this could be a new day for us too.

You didn’t have plans, did you?”

“I— No, not really. Where are we going? Out for kabobs?”

“Nothing says new day like kabob.” She laughs. “You’ll see.”

What I see soon enough is this: Lily leading me to the South Bank. Down to the Thames. Lily tells me she’d like to be cremated

and scattered into the river someday.

“I don’t like thinking about you dying.”

“Then don’t.” She takes my hand. “Think about me floating for eternity. I love water. I’ll be happy here.”

“Is it because it reminds you of Jamaica?”

“You think this filthy river reminds me of Jamaica?” She puts a hand in the dirty water. “You never had a mother, did you?”

I shake my head.

“I was thinking. What if I baptize you here? With the water from this city we call home.”

“Baptize me?” I don’t think of Lily as particularly religious.

“Maybe it’s a silly idea. I just thought it would mean something. Like a wedding symbolizes a union. This can too. My commitment

to you. To be a mother to you.”

“And mine. To be a son to you.” I smile. “It’s not a silly idea. It’s a beautiful one.”

She nods. Takes my hands in hers. “In the name of Donna Summer, Grace Jones, and Oscar Wilde, I now baptize you as my son.”

I don’t know why she chose Oscar Wilde of all people. Perhaps, like Donna and Grace, she thinks of him as some kind of patron saint.

She bends down. Cups some water into her right hand. Sprinkles it onto my face with her left. The filthy water feels like

it cleanses me. I do feel reborn as she declares me: “Bram Summers of the Brixton Summers.”

“I love you, Lily.”

She holds me tight. “I love you too.”

Have I told her I’ve loved her before? I’m not sure. One doesn’t track those three words with a new mother as one does with

a new lover. And yet they’re just as meaningful. There are so many ways to love.

I separate from Lily by the Waterloo Tube station. We hug tightly outside a restaurant with an obscenely large portrait of

Queen Elizabeth in its window. The crown of jewels atop her head glimmers behind the glass. Next to her face are brightly

colored words. Breakfast. Dinner. Teas. Sweets . A young girl in tattered clothes stops outside. Stares at the queen’s image. Is she inspired by the queen’s opulence? Or

perhaps shamed? Likely both.

I take the Tube to the newspaper office to place the ad. I’ve never felt so sure it’s the right day. I have something concrete

to offer Oliver now. A home. A mother. A life. I imagine him somewhere in Buenos Aires. Looking just as he looked when I left

him. Same soft face. Locks of brown hair. Blue eyes glowing orange as he reads my message. Addressed to Tchaikovsky from Walt

Whitman. He heads straight to a travel agency. Asks for options on how to get to London. He doesn’t think through the decision.

Doesn’t need to. He’s forgiven me. He’s ready for our life together to finally begin.

I see a tattoo parlor in Soho on my way home.

Displays of elaborate designs. Dragons. Chinese characters.

Arabic scripture. Astrological symbols. I go inside.

I don’t know why exactly. I suppose it feels right.

To mark myself for him. I can’t very well tattoo his name on my chest though.

Not when he’s likely changed it dozens of times like me.

I tell the tattoo artist I want a simple oval shape on my heart.

“Like an egg?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Like a capital O .”

An O. For him. And for life. Which is a circle, after all. Always bringing us back. Familiar emotions. Frustrations that feel

like old friends. A love that won’t let go of our hearts.