“I thought I'd try something new.”
“My God, you look like that singer . . .”
“Madonna?”
“Art Garfunkel.”
I left my helmet, jacket, and bag in the hall closet and took my seat at the table.
“You got here right in tine,” Grandma said. “Holy cats! Look at you. You look just like that singer.”
“I know,” I snapped. “I know.”
“Where's Joseph?” my mother said. “I thought he was coming to dinner.”
“We've sort of . . . broken up.”
Everyone
stopped eating, except for my father. My father used the opportunity to take more potatoes.
“That's impossible,” my mother said. “You have a gown.”
“I canceled the gown.”
“Does Joseph know this?”
“Yep.” I tried to act casual, digging in to my meal, asking my sister to pass the green beans. I can get through this, I thought. I'm a blonde. I can do anything.
“It's the hair, isn't it?” my mother asked. “He called the wedding off because of the hair.”
“I called the wedding off. And I don't want to talk about it.”
The doorbell rang and Valerie jumped up. “That's for me. I have a date.”
“A date!” my mother said. “That's wonderful. You've been here such a short time and already you have a date.”
I did some mental eye rolling. My sister is clueless. This is what happens when you grow up as the good girl. You never learn the value of lies and deceit. I never brought my dates home. You meet dates at the mall so you don't give your parents a stroke when your date shows up with tattoos and tongue studs. Or, in this case, is a lesbian.
“This is Janeane,” Valerie said, introducing a short, dark-haired woman. “I met her when I interviewed at the bank. I didn't get the job but Janeane asked me out.”
“She's a woman,” my mother said.
“Yes, we're lesbians,” Valerie said.
My mother fainted. Crash. Flat out on the floor.
Everyone jumped up and ran to my mother.
She opened her eyes but didn't move a muscle for a good thirty seconds. Then she yelled out, “A lesbian! Mother of God. Frank, your daughter's a lesbian.”
My father squinted at Valerie. “Is that my tie you've got on?”
“You have a lot of nerve,” my mother said, still on her back on the floor. “All those years when you were normal and had a husband, you lived in California. And now that you're here you turn into a lesbian. Isn't it enough your sister shoots people? What kind of a family is this?”
“I hardly ever shoot anyone,” I said.
“I bet there are lots of good things to being a lesbian,” Grandma said. “If you marry a lesbian you never have to worry about someone leaving the toilet seat up.”