Darrell's Blog

The E.T. Journal (Part 3 of 4)

Sunday arrives with an early sun, and I welcome the day with fresh possibilities. In a few hours Tom, Saar and I will be headed to Macon to meet Tom’s family: Mary (Tom’s mother), Tom, Sr. (Tom’s dad), Tammy (Tom’s maternal aunt), and his sisters, “Peaches” and “Sweetie”—all of whom I’ve met previously. And I will meet Tom’s brother, Tyrone, most of Tom’s nieces and nephews and other members of his extended family. It’s reunion time and I am excited! Thrilled, even, if this visit will be anything like the prior one, where I was welcomed with warmth and down-home hospitality.

But for now, I sidle out of bed while my two younger men are asleep and get dressed for the pool. It’s my last chance to swim before we leave Atlanta. And I’m determined to take a dip, with or without Tom.

I look good in my low-rise swimsuit, everything positioned just so.

Tom stirs awake as I am writing him a note about my whereabouts. I crumple the note and tell him I’m going for swim. Tell him, “I should be back in about an hour.” Then ask, “What time do you want to have breakfast? Check out and head down to Macon?” I’m feeling too full of myself to care if he’s noticed that I’m in peacock mode or to ask if he cares to join me. I am almost hopping toward the door. “See you in a few,” I say, and close the door behind me.

The water in the pool is clear and tepid, like a hot bath that had been left sitting too long to cool. The pool is empty except for an elderly white woman who appears too busy executing her flawless freestyle strokes to notice that another swimmer has joined her. I dive in and swim slowly underwater from one side to the other...Nirvana. I am free of my worries.

I continue swimming side-to-side, then back-and-forth. At the end of a lap I look up and wonder if anyone is watching me from the hotel windows that look out onto the pool. I remember the summer weekend Tom and I met: A group of us had gone to the Country Club (an upscale bar/health club) to drink and swim. From a poolside chaise lounge I watched as Tom, Rene and few other friends of ours frolicked about the pool, diving in and out and splashing one another. Men behaving as boys. I am watching Tom with a lust that gradually builds to an erection, warming my inner thigh. He is lean and toned, a natural ectomorph, and his light brown skin glistens as water streams through the grooves of his muscularity. I want him as much as I want to be him. Yet I force myself to look away as often as I stare at him. I don’t want the others to know the gravity of my desire, fearing they will mock it, or worse, thwart it out of competition or spite. (Generally I believe my friends affirm my highest goals and wishes, yet when an eligible and highly desirable man is up for grabs, the “trusted ones” sometimes can be cunning and guile—with finesse.) So I reveal only the tip of this glacier of heat that is consuming me: a casual smile, brief friendly-like conversation. I get up and walk around the pool. I toss a rubber ball into the pool so the boys can play volleyball. The game begins and quickly ends. Another game begins. In this one, Tom mounts Rene’s shoulders, Alex mounts Patrick’s and one man-team has to topple the other man-team to win…Then, the swim trunks come off. My heart races and I return to the chaise and sit. I feel squeamish, a little embarrassed; I have never seen more than one of my friends (at a time) naked before—and never in public. I look away, talk to another friend sitting next to me to calm myself. When I look back my eyes meet Tom’s. I can feel his energy connect to mine. Telepathy—I hope. Then he looks away. …Soon thereafter, I (and the friend who had been sitting beside me) leave. I feel relieved and frustrated. Free from the vision of lust and desire that held me locked in its grip, and fretful that I was too afraid—or prudish?—to get into the pool with Tom and enjoy him. I backstroke to the other end of the pool. The elderly white woman surfaces and notices me. “Oh! Good morning,” she says, surprised. “I didn’t realize that another swimmer was in the pool.” I smile and compliment her skillful and focused swimming. “Thank you. I could swim for hours. I love it. I do it almost every day.” Then she swims away.

I do a handstand in the water, pretending that I am competing in the Olympics as a synchronized swimmer. The thought that Tom and Saar might come out to the pool crosses my mind for a second. Then I fall over, heels-over-head. I climb out of the pool and go up to the room.

When I opened the door Tom and Saar were sitting on the bed dressed watching the Disney Channel, again. (I wanted to scream “Is that the only damned channel on the fucking television?!” Yet I would never do such a thing, knowing that I am much more superego than id.) “I’m back. Hey Saar!” I say beaming at them both. “I’ll be dressed and ready to go in two minutes."

We walked up the block to Au Bon Pain for breakfast. Tom and Saar had a typical Southern breakfast of grits, egg, sausage, juice, milk, cereal, and a muffin. I ate granola and fruit and drank an orange juice. We talked a little more than the previous night, though I can’t remember a word of what we said.

The short walk back to the hotel was long on silence.

At checkout, like at the Italian restaurant two nights prior, the staring (by the bellman, concierge, and desk clerks) was palpable, though presumably for different reasons. This time our onlookers were all Black and mostly men. I knew they knew what we were: a gay couple—with a baby. And I graciously did everything I could do to solidify that impression (lovingly caressing Saar’s head; kneeling and pulling him close to adjust his shirt collar; and telling him to “take the keys to Daddy”), knowing that their prejudice was bound by professionalism...Fucking heterosexuals.

I volunteered to drive us to Macon, though I didn’t necessarily feel like it. Maybe I thought it would give me something to do, something to focus on, other than being the idle passenger who feigns interests in insignificant landmarks along the travel route, or one who fills the air with vacuous conversation, just to have something to talk about. Driving would take some of the worry off my mind and my clear my head. And maybe once we’re outside city limits, Tom and I might talk heart-to-heart, relate, and connect like we’ve done before on previous road trips we’ve taken to Macon and elsewhere. I am optimistic.

...“What is going on? What is going on?” is all I can think to myself. I have been driving for nearly a half-hour and Tom has hardly said a word to me. Other than turning around a few times to check on Saar in the backseat and changing the radio station, he is mum, his eyes focused on the road ahead. I want to touch his hand, caress his long lean fingers, but think better of it. Even though our fingers have embraced dozens of times, I fear touching him as much as I’ve feared touching an anonymous “lover” for the first time—not knowing whether my touch will be welcomed and mutual or scorned and repelled. I breathe in deeply and ask a question I already know the answer to, in an attempt to gauge his mood, his disposition: “Which exit do I take your mother’s house?” He answers; he is calm, quiet.

The gravel crunches under the tires as I pull into Mary’s long driveway. I love Tom’s mother. She is unadorned and pretty, with un-styled hair combed neatly down to her shoulders. She is real people and smiles confidently, even though she is missing one of her top front teeth. Mary opens the screen door on the small front porch. She kisses Tom on the cheek and pats Saar on the head as they pass by her into the house. I take a bag from the trunk and make my way up the stairs. Mary and I greet each other with a generous hug. “It’s so good to see you again, baby,” she says to me.

Inside I meet Tom’s dad, Tom, Sr. Like Tom, he is a man of slight build, and his body and callous hands are proof that he’s worked hard in a factory for over thirty years. We shake hands and I take a seat in the corner of the large L-shaped sectional in the den. Tom Sr. has just come from fishing and is adamant that we eat “some good ol’ fried fish” that he is about to fry in the backyard.

I feel better, good, and decide not dwell on the past few days in Atlanta. I’m in Macon now, with my other family and things can only get better. Today is a holiday (Mother’s Day) and soon many of Tom’s family will make their way over to Mary’s to eat and celebrate his safe return from the war in Iraq. (Tom has told me that he doesn’t want a big deal being made over him—especially since he is very cynical about his extended family—but we both know there is little that he can do about it—for which I am glad. If anyone needs a celebration right now, it is me.)

There were over twenty of Tom’s relatives in Mary’s den when I stopped counting, filling in the entire sectional sofa and most of the space on the floor around it. Tom’s sisters and his brother, Tyrone, nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, and a few friends of the family. Nearly everyone had come from church; a few had come from work. A few of the women wore suits or dresses, the most elderly of them looking best in a cream-colored double-breasted suit with matching hose, handbag and hat. I would learn later that this was Tom’s maternal grandmother, but no introduction was made when she arrived. The rest of the women were dressed casual, or less than. Tyrone, whom I had never met before, seemed to avoid my gaze, but I could only guess why, since I didn’t know anything about him other than that Tom said he didn’t like him and hadn’t spoken to him for years. (Note: Tyrone and Tom have since reconciled; in fact, Tom was the best man at his brother’s wedding just last month.)

I sat quietly on the sofa next to Tom (and Saar) watching as his relatives paraded in and greeted him with kisses and handshakes. I smiled or nodded politely at each of them approached nearer, waiting for Tom to introduce me—as “something”—to his kin. But it never happened. He just hugged or kissed or shook hands with whoever came to him. And I just sat and watched and smiled. I felt helpless, unsure of what to do…For a second I contemplated being bold and telling each person that passed over me “Hi, I’m Darrell, Tom’s lover.” But I didn’t, realizing that most of them already knew who I was, knowing that Tom is gay and that I would be coming home with him. (It was the typical Black family response to a homosexual relative’s partner, I reasoned: Silence—in exchange for acceptance.) So, I sat quietly. Unacknowledged. And Ignored.

…When Tammy, Tom’s favorite aunt (and my favorite of his aunts) arrived, I perked up. Tammy is my age and of my temperance. And she likes me! We talk on the phone periodically and she knew I would be visiting with Tom. After Tammy greets a number of her relatives, she comes over to me. I stand up (for the first time in a few hours) and we heartily embrace. “I’ve been waiting for you all afternoon,” I tell her. “I know,” she apologizes, telling me how she got held up. I move over to make room for her to sit next to me, between Tom, so we can talk. Thank you, Jesus, I think to myself.

Later, Tammy and I went to Best Buy to get a DVD I had to purchase that day. In the car we chat, catch up, talk about life in general. Then she asks, “How are you and Tom doing?” I say “okay,” wondering if I can trust her enough to tell her my truer feelings. I decide I can. And I tell her what has happened the past two days and how unhappy and uncertain I am feeling about my relationship with Tom. I tell her what he has promised (and not kept), and what he has not said and not done, and—to add injury to insult—how he is pretending that nothing is wrong. “I love him,” I tell her. “But I feel betrayed, deceived, heartbroken.” “I would go home right if I could afford to,” I mutter, fighting back tears.

When we return to Mary’s house, we remain in the car and talk a bit more, until one of Tammy’s sisters comes to the car window “to see what y’all doing.” We get out the car and return to the den, but nearly everyone has gone home by now, except Tom’s uncle and his grandmother. I return to the same spot I was sitting before and exhale heavily, feeling relieved for having had Tammy’s shoulder to “cry” on. I rest my head far back on the sofa and fall into sleep… “Wake up!!” The loud and heavy voice startles me. It is Tom’s uncle. “Who told you you could sleep in here?” he asks. He is chuckling at having scared me awake; he thinks it is funny. I sit up straight and say nothing, but I am thinking, You motherfucker, you!

“Why don’t you go get in bed,” Mary says. “You know where everything is.” I look questioningly at Mary and survey the room wondering if it’s okay to excuse myself. I check my watch; it’s a few minutes past eight. I look at Tom. (Nothing.) Then, again at Mary. “You sure it’s okay?” I ask. She tells me to “go to bed, boy.” I say goodnight to everybody and do just that.

I awoke well past 1 a.m. and was still fully dressed. I had fallen asleep with my clothes on. (My intention had been to lie across the bed and nap for a few hours, before preparing for bed.) I go to the bathroom to relieve myself, then back through my bedroom and into the kitchen to get a glass of water. When I walked into the kitchen, which opens widely into the den, I gulp, swallowing my Adam’s apple. There, again, is Robert. He and Tom are talking. My eyes dilate, as I cannot conceal being surprised, er, shocked. Where had he come from? (He was supposed to have gone to S. Carolina just yesterday afternoon.) What time did he arrive at Mary’s? And did Tom know he was coming? I ask myself. “Uhhh, hi Robert,” are the first words to come out of me. Then, “How was your trip? The graduation?” I could see that they, too, were caught “off guard” by my entrance. Yet, other than answering “Hi” and “Fine,” Robert says little else to me. And Tom says nothing.

(Part 4 of 4 is forthcoming soon.)

Posted by Darrell at July 26, 2004 10:23 PM | TrackBack