Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst. 'Desperado' belongs to The Eagles. Adam Pascal's voice belongs to Adam Pascal (as far as I know) but it's still pretty.
I do hope no one is offended by the Nazism, liberalism, anti-republicanism, attitude towards Catholicismor profanity contained herein. Grandma Davis's views do not reflect my own.
ROGER
My entire family comes home for Christmas.
It begins with Grandma Davis, who I retrieve from the airport. Grandma Davis is crazy. Sometimes she forgets and thinks she's still in the Reich. On the way home from the airport, she fiddles with the radio dial. "All this music, nothing on our troops," she complains. "Nothing about the fuhrer."
I might want to laugh, if this was the first time. Unfortunately, Grandma Davis was not one of those forced into the Hitler Youth. Admittedly this is a poor example as she was too old for the Hitler Youth; the point is, Grandma Davis lived in Germany during World War Two. So did Dad. Grandma sometimes talks about what Dad was like and what he did for the Hitler Youth, which she made him join but he was pleased to do.
"I didn't understand," he told me once. It was the only time he talked about it. I was ten years old, and we were camping. Dad invited me to take a hike with him early in the morning, before everyone else woke up. He just came into the tent, shook me awake, told me to get dressed. And we went. And we were just watching the valley and the way the trees changed and the rock sparked with color when the sun kissed them for the first time, like the whole world starting just for us. And Dad said, "I didn't understand. I wasn't much older than you."
I only later figured out what he meant. After that we went back to the site and he treated me exactly as he had before, as though nothing had happened, but we both knew it had.
Mark used to talk about his grandfather's stories about concentration camps. I never tell him about Grandma Davis or my father. He knows that she is a Nazi, but no details. I'm afraid of what would happen if I told him.
Mark's gotten scary. He's like a dandelion. I picked those, when I was a kid. I closed my eyes and imagined, hard, what I wanted more than anything in the world, the pursed my lips and blew with all my scrawny, six-year-old might. Mark reminds me of a dandelion. If he's pushed too hard, even the tiniest thing can send him scattered in the wind.
He won't talk to me about it. He talks to Collins. I should be happy. At least Mark is talking at all. At least he has someone. But I'm not happy. I'm jealous. I'm angry. Mark and me, we're best friends. That's how it is and how's it's supposed to be. Mark is the one watching me as I play my new song, eyes closed so I don't see him and blush. And I am the one to read his plays and stories. I am the one to tell him, again and again, that I love them.
I think about this as I drive Grandma Davis home. "Grandma, we're in New York," I remind her. "It's 1982. Reagan is in power, not Hitler. Though Reagan is hardly an improvement," I grumble.
I don't think Reagan is as bad as Hitler. That was hyperbole. But I am afraid of the power the Republicans have after Carter. I liked Carter. I liked his policies and environmentalism. But his extremism has completely isolated the right branch. Now for the Democrats to regain power, they'll have to go right. No one respects the left. I do not blame Carter for this. He was a good guy and knew what he was about. It's the American people that upset me.
That and Ronald Reagan. "Ketchup is a vegetable" my ass! And now the man denies Communist witch hunts. Sure. And Arthur fuckin' Miller was just writing about history. And who was the head of the Screen Actors' Guild? Who handed innocent men and women over for vague liberalism? RONALD REAGAN, that's who.
The car jolts forward when Grandma Davis smacks the back of my head. "Ow! Grandma, I'm driving!"
"If you could call it that."
I chuckle. For all she's a crazy Nazi bitch, I love my grandma.
I have four siblings who don't live at home. The first to arrive is Theresa. She's only six years older than I am. She dresses like she's on trial: blouses, jackets with matching skirts, nylons. I love nylons. Know why they're called nylons? It's because they were discovered in New York and London at the same time. NY-Lon. I just love that. Tons of people wear nylons, and they're a great example of sharing.
Theresa has painted nails and lipstick that smells stale. She doesn't hug me, she kisses my cheek and says, "Hello, Roger," as though speaking to a four-year-old. She does the same to Sarah, who immediately scrubs at the smears on her cheek. I laugh into my hand.
This year, she brings a boyfriend called Oliver. He's big, muscly. It's the first time I see someone and think of the term 'barrel-chested.' He has wiry off-orange hair and big hands. He seems like something from another time and place. He belongs in Homer, not Scarsdale. When he walks in, I quiver. This is one terrifying son of a bitch. Immediately sensing a challenge, I force myself to stand up straight and make my face a stone.
"So you're Roger?" he asks. His accent throws me: a thick Scots burr. "I've heard about yah." He takes my hand and pumps it. "Musician, eh?"
"That's right," I tell him. I'm impressed! My voice sounds fairly cool, despite the fact that my balls are trying to self-castrate.
"Aye, so yer sister says." The man talks like a pirate! "Guitar, aye?" I nod. "You'll play for us?" And before I know what I'm doing, I nod. "Well, I'll look forward to that! Great to meet'cha, Roger." He slaps my shoulder and I have to fight not to stumble.
I think I like him.
Next is Anne, who pulls up in a beaten Ford and has a hug for everyone. Anne's great. She laughs at everything. At times I wonder if she belongs in this family. She's boisterous, loud, the life of the party. She doesn't know how loudly she speaks. Nine years my senior, she has a bachelor's degree in English and an emergency teaching credential. She's been teaching for a couple of years now, and she loves it. Which is nice, because she needed the money.
Life is so much easier once Anne arrives. She sucks up the air in the room, allowing me to slip away. I go upstairs for a while, because I need to have a talk with Sarah.
"Are you all right?" I ask. She's standing in the bathroom, carefully squeezing toothpaste onto her toothbrush. She nods; I go in and sit on the rim of the bathtub. "Are you sleeping okay?"
Ever since Grandma Davis arrived, Sarah has had no choice but to sleep in her own bed. Grandma is in her room, also, which to my parents is a reason for Sarah not to need to run to me. Dad is fully oblivious to his mother's insanity. I don't understand. She hardly acts like a mother. When she heard me singing Sarah a lullaby, she ordered me to stop, saying that my useless fluff and lies were making her weak and useless to the fuhrer.
But that's the great thing about family, no matter how difficult they are to endure, no matter how much shit they give and what they do to you, you forgive them. They're your family.
"Hello? Is anyone here?"
"Frankie!"
I take the stairs two and three at a time to crash into my sister. "Hey, Roger!" I have my arms around her; she squeezes me with one arm, the other holding a duffel bag I bet is full of dirty laundry. When the hug ends, I'm under her arm. "How are you?" she asks. "Still raising hell?"
"Frankie, I started a riot!" I report, proud of myself. "In the school auditorium. They forced out a recruiter, it was so great."
She beams. "We need more like you," she says, "with the big R in the White House."
I love Frankie so much. She is twenty-three, in college, has frizzy, uncontrollable hair and wears purple braces. She does not exactly look like a Davis. She looks like Mom, and she's the only one. Frankie is openly liberal and doesn't care what anybody thinks.
Most boys look up to their brothers. Well, most boys' brothers are not Peter Davis.
"Roger," he says, and that's the entire greeting, my name and a nod and a solemn handshake.
"Peter Rabbit," I reply in the same even, solemn tone, my face drawn to sorrow. Behind me, Sarah and Frankie crack up. I give Peter a disrespectful and, I'm told, cheeky wink. No matter what, the picture of Peter in his elementary school play are far more embarrassing than the pictures of me in my gi.
Peter is, in a word, old. He's thirty-two, the oldest Davis, and a real pain in the ass. He thinks he knows just e-e-everything and what's best for everyone. I hate him. I mean he's barely out of school! To be completely fair, he is out of school but only of a couple years ago, and now he's a shrink. I hate shrinks. I'll always hate shrinks. I mean, Ariata's okay but she's isn't a shrink shrink, she's a counselor. She counsels. Pete's a shrink.
His wife is all right. Her name is Olivia; she's pretty and she's slim, or she used to be. Now she's pregnant, her baby bulging against a white blouse. She hugs me and kisses me and touches my hair. It's not romantic. It's motherly, like she wants to practice. I don't like Olivia as a person, only because she's so difficult to get to know. She's so busy trying to be perfect.
I don't have wet dreams about many people. Usually, I don't have them about people at all, just feelings and colors, motion and sound. But the first night Olivia and Peter are staying with us, I have one of the most intense dreams I have ever had.
I wake up grinning, insanely happy. Then I realize that I'm lying on the top bunk and my brother and his wife are squeezed into the bunk below me, probably listening to me moan my way through one hell of an orgasm. And I have my hand down my pants. Fuck. Wait, that's not really an appropriate obscenity. Dammit! Or maybe Damn me. I am from a Catholic family, after all.
Slowly, I ease myself off the bunk. The room is empty; I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe no one heard. Maybe I had the dream in the morning, after Peter and Olivia had gone.
There's no one in the bathroom. This is getting a bit creepy. With eleven people in the house, there is always a wait for the bathroom. But I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I just go in, pee, and scrub my hands thoroughly. It's not touching myself that bothers me, it's walking around with cum-crust on my fingers. That's disgusting.
It's nice having all this time to do bathroom stuff. I comb the knots out of my hair, wash my face, brush my teeth for the entire two minutes. At the end of this, I feel great. Very much ready for Christmas, which is today.
Shit! Christmas!
Christmas mass. That's where everyone is! Why didn't they wake me?
I dash for the stairs, then realize that being late to Christmas mass and arriving in dirty sweats is not as bad as being later to mass and arriving properly dressed. I dash back to the room.
Pete is waiting for me. I don't even see him. The moment I have the door closed, he grabs me. "You disgusting little sinner," he hisses, and shoves me onto the bed. My head hits the wall; I raise my fingers to probe the sore spot. He grabs the desk chair and sits facing me. "Well?" he demands. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"
"A... bout what?" I ask. I know what, but I'm not going to say it. I'm going to make him say it.
"About what you did last night," he says. "In bed!"
"Sleeping?" I ask, all innocence.
Pete sighs through clenched teeth. "Roger, you were sinning," he says. "You're gonna go to hell."
I snort. "May as well do it some more, then," I figure.
"Roger!" Pete looks like he wants to strangle me. I immediately pity his unborn child. "What you were doing is dirty and disgusting and even if you were asleep and couldn't help yourself, it is still a sin! A big one. And every time you do it, you don't just soil yourself in the eyes of the L-rd." I don't what? I want to laugh. Pete's a real fuck, but he's funny as hell. "You're a murderer, Roger. You're killing all those babies."
I can't help it: I burst out laughing. "My sperm?" I spit. "You're calling my sperm babies?" It's kind of terrifying to think of my penis in those terms. I imagine all my sperm turning into babies, tiny things like blisters down there until the pressure's too much and my dick explodes in a mess of bloodand unborn children. The image makes me laugh harder.
I swear I have never dropped acid.
Peter slaps the chair. "Stop laughing!" he commands. I can't. "Don't you understand that I'm worried for you? You're just a child, you don't know what you want. I'm trying to look out for you. I'm trying to protect you, Roger, because you're my brother. I love you."
No one says that in my family unless either they want something or they're speaking in religious terms. Peter is both right now. I don't know why I do this, because I don't like my brother and I certainly don't agree with him, but I sober up and pretend I'm sorry. I let Peter take me to church and promise to confess next week.
Peter's happy. I just think about Christmas dinner.
---
Christmas dinner is always fun. Oh, presents are well and good. I'm actually quite touched that Peter, who has never shown an interest in my music and even encouraged me to study business and sell the guitar, has given me songbooks. Olivia is pleased with the baby blanket. Her face gets that soft look, like she's going to cry.
The only people not pleased are Dad and Grandma Davis, who say that knitting is for girls and sports are for boys. I don't care. It's not a girlie blanket or anything, just white and blue checks. And anyway I did sports for ages. There's photographs to prove it: me in soccer shorts, baseball uniform, track shorts (I shudder at the thought), basketball jersey, gi. If I want to knit, it's my fucking choice.
But Christmas dinner, that's incredible. We all squeeze around the table and there's more food than anyone could hope to eat. I did not have to cook; usually, dinner means me and Sarah scarfing down something I threw together. Tonight, it's the entire family. It's sitting down, using cutlery and napkins, please and thank you and more deliciousness than I thought physically possible.
Sarah tugs my sleeve and holds out a Christmas cracker. I clasp onto one end and tug, wrenching the kid out of her chair. Everyone laughs, including Sarah. "Okay, Sair, hold on tight this time," I say. She clings to the chair with one hand and the cracker with the other, and we pop the thing open with a mighty BANG! Inside is a little plastic pig, a yellow paper crown which I settle on Sarah's head, and a silly joke about vampires and dentists.
My cracker contains a green crown. Sarah insists that I wear it; since everyone is wearing a paper crown, I don't feel too silly. There is also a little cloth sunflower and a joke about Napoleon.
Anne, at the end of the table, is speaking with Olivia about her child and the school system. "Lucky, you are," Anne tells her. "The baby boomers, Peter's right at the peak, isn't he, and I mean if he hadn't started this young your kids could seriously stand to face a population boom, make it very difficult to get into a good college--"
"Or," Frankie cuts in, "social security. We're not being careful. Surplus money must go to social security or it will run out. Inflation--"
"Aye, there's the key," agrees Oliver. "If ye're not checkin' inflation, all ye've got is, well, nowt. Ye're money's gettin' useless. And the population, perhaps that's why we're seeing this new thing, this immuno-deficiency syndrome--"
"The AIDS virus," Pete interrupts, "is a punishment from G-d. Why else would it only strike faggots and junkies?"
"Don't say 'faggot'," I tell him. "People who are gay are just gay. It's not, like, wrong." I'm not gay, but I'm fairly certain my friends are. I haven't asked. I know they think homosexuality is okay, because of the riot.
"It is wrong, Roger," he tells me right back. "It's wrong because G-d says it's wrong."
I roll my eyes. "The Bible says--"
My mother interrupts me, frantic, "Roger, honey, eat something. You're getting too skinny."
I'm actually not. I think I've gained weight. But she's worried, so I stuff my mouth. "His problem," Grandma Davis says, "is liberalism! All of you damn liberals, softness, that's not getting you anywhere! Jimmy Carter is the reason--"
"Jimmy Carter is a great man--"
Pete clears his throat. "Excuse me," he says. "I-- Olivia and I-- have an announcement we'd like to make. With the baby coming soon and, well, just the fact that we'll be a family, we have decided to move back home. To Scarsdale." There is a smattering of applause and congratulations. I'm not happy about this, so I just eat.
And then, after dinner and compliments to my mother and toasts to Peter comes my absolute favorite part of Christmas. Now, I'm a little dizzy since my mother gave me three glasses of champagne during the toasts. We celebrate at Christmas, everything. And now, now it my favorite part, an unscheduled moment that inevitably occurs, when someone turns to me, in this case it's Oliver, and says, "When are you going to sing for us, Roger?"
Everyone choruses agreement and encouragement. "Come on, Rog!" "Yes, sing!" So I stand up and take a deep breath.
And I think of Mark and Collins. It's funny that even when I'm with my family and happy, I think of my friends. I think of the secret written in the lines Collins' face, the one I can't quite read but I know he wants to tell. I think of how Mark looks down and the way his smile is so shy and hopeful. And I think of the things I ask of them, and what they give without being asked.
When I sing, I'm singing how I wish I could sing for them. It's a song that describes me in some ways, and them in the same. It's a song I sing with my eyes closed, whose hard-hit notes make my shoulders jump and my chest expand, and I'm not singing like I'm in a small room but raising my voice to fill a packed house.
I know that to Peter, "These things that are pleasin' you/Can hurt you somehow" is about my masturbation. He connects that, the thing I enjoy to my eternal damnation. To me it's the little lines I make on my arms and legs and hips. To me it's Mark when he sees and the way Collins seems to know, anyway. And how they don't understand that it doesn't hurt and that it's okay when it does.
"You ain't gettin' no younger/Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home" reminds Anne of the reason she became a teacher. She thinks of her cold apartment and the manuscripts she sets aside to grade papers. She thinks of what she loves and what she has made herself love.
And the strangest thing, as I ask, "Don't your feet get cold in the winter time? Your sky won't snow and your sun won't shine," a lyric I have altered to personal preference, I open my eyes just slightly to look at my mother. The line makes me think of her and those pills she takes, quietly, every day. But she's just beaming. And next to her, dabbing his eyes, is my father.
I close my eyes and have to force out the next words, but they come strong. I finish with as much sad energy as I can muster, and open my eyes. My heart is racing. This is the first time I've ever felt judgment. Every year I sing a carol, or a hymn and my family claps and says they like. I've never sung rock for them. I've never sung country or anything I write. This is the moment in which I have risked everything. I have taken my moment, my constant shining moment as their golden boy and risked it for what I am.
They're silent. They're staring. I'm about to cry. What? I want to ask them. What? Don't you like it? Is it okay?
Peter says, "Oh, Roger." It's hardly above a whisper.
Grandma Davis sighs. "Well," she says, "he may be a liberal, but he's got talent."
"He's something," Anne says. "My brother…" And she's proud.
"Could he even do that last year?" asks Theresa. Mom shakes her head. More than one member of the family is crying.
"They said you were good," Oliver says, addressing me directly, "but nothing like that."
I bow my head. I want to cry, I'm so happy. They're talking about what to do with me, how to encourage this, how I should be caring for my voice, sneaking glances and stares to try to figure out who this boy is, this kid who has always been a brother but never been their brother. Never been my brother in anything but a name.
I know something else, then. I know that I'm going to sing for Collins, who asks in his casual, offhand way. I know I'm going to sing for Mark, who would never say but watches me and listens and promises he doesn't mind. I know that I'm not a very good friend or a very good person, but I have this. I have this. I have this.
TO BE CONTINUED!
To all readers,
Mark's episode last chapter did have a specific meaning. However, you all seem to have interpreted it as you please and I'm going to leave it at that and let the story mean different things to different people. If you want what I meant for it, drop me a line on IM or e-mail and I'll let you know.
Concerning the year: Yes, I am setting this in 1982. I had to pick a year, went about with figures and such-like, and made a decision. I have a plan for Collins and his college, etc. which I ask that you accept on willing suspension of disbelief.
Please and thank you,
lovefrom London.
P.S. Thank you all who leave reviews. I really love hearing from you.
