No-Accounts: Dare Mighty Things. Tom Glenn
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never pick a fight. He always makes these outlandish, biased statements. I finally have to say something.”
“He says the self-same thing about you, Peter.”
Peter bit his tongue.
“It’ll be wonderful to see you, darlin’,” she said. “You take care, now.”
“I will.” He paused. “I love you, Mom.”
“Why, Peter,” she said, “thank you. I love you, too.”
“And give Dad my love, will you?”
Silence.
“And he sends his,” she said.
Sure he does.
Martin arrived before six and flashed his usual happy smile. “How are you tonight, mate?”
“Mate? Is that a proposition?”
Martin grimaced. “Navy talk. Don’t read innuendos into my funny way of talking.”
“Why not, sexy?” Peter threw back the covers. “Want to come join me?”
“Peter, that’s not funny.”
Peter laughed. “Not only a breeder but a prude. Guess that’s the price I pay for not insisting on one of my own kind. Lighten up. I’m only kidding.”
Martin rubbed his lips together as though thinking what to say. “You’re acting like such a prick, you must feel better.”
“That’s the Martin I know and love. Yeah, I feel good. I’m on a roll.”
Martin’s face relaxed. “That’s great.” He headed into the kitchen. “I’ll whump up a hearty meal. If you promise to stay in the next room during the testosterone storms.”
Peter got out of bed, put on his robe, and followed. “No promises. Chacun à son goût. I’ll be ready for another outing soon.” He pulled up a chair.
Martin was filling the coffee pot with water. “Where do you want to go this time? The zoo? Great Falls? The Mall? Kennedy Center?”
Peter lowered his shoulders. “God, I’d love to go to the Kennedy Center.” He tilted back his head and laughed. “We used to go there on New Year’s Eve and waltz in the Grand Foyer. We got some serious frowns. One year Kirk went in drag—big white hoop skirt and lace and pearls and this foot-high white powdered wig, all curls and swags and silver bows. They threw us out. I used to have a party after midnight every New Year’s. Champagne, balloons, serpentine, confetti, noise makers, hats. People used to talk about a ‘Peter Christopher New Year’s.’ It was better than Halloween.”
“Huh?”
“Halloween and New Year’s are the big gay holidays, Martin.”
“What about Christmas, Thanksgiving—”
“Très bourgeoises. Annual breeder coffee klatches. Bo-o-o-oring.”
“I see.”
“Liar.”
Martin put bacon in the skillet and lit a burner. “Anyway, you think you’re strong enough to go to the Kennedy Center?”
“Maybe someday.” Peter let his eyes slide shut. He saw the soaring marble planes and brass chandeliers and stairs carpeted in burgundy pile and tiers of shining white stone balconies. Uncluttered, massive, pure, masculine. “Do they let people be buried there?”
Martin sliced tomatoes. “Morbid humor doesn’t become you.”
“I mean it. Someday I have to decide where to be buried.”
“I don’t think they bury people there.”
Peter cocked his head. “Actually, what I have in mind is Cunniption’s. It’s a bar.”
Martin put down the knife.
“It’s okay,” Peter said. “It’s a gay bar.”
“And you want to be buried there?”
“That’s where I want to go for my next outing.”
Martin drew himself up to his full height. “And you want me to take you. To Cunnee—”
“Cunniption’s. It’s on P Street between Dupont Circle and the bridge. Kind of hard to park there, though.”
“We’re going to need to talk about your bar hopping tendencies. Feeling good enough to bathe yourself?”
Peter nodded.
“Go take your shower,” Martin said, “then we’ll talk while we eat. I’m going to get the soup going and take a load of laundry down.”
“And I need a haircut, too.”
At dinner, Peter finished his BLT and mushroom soup—he didn’t even mention that he hated mushroom soup—and asked for dessert.
Martin looked at him sidelong. “Trying to impress me?”
“Trying not to lose any more weight. Maybe I could even gain a pound or two.”
“Great. I’ll dish you out some ice cream.”
“With chocolate sauce and whipped cream, please.”
Martin started for the kitchen, then stopped. “Why do I feel like I’m being set up?”
“My parents are coming to visit Tuesday night. Butter pecan.”
Martin jumped. “What?”
“Butter pecan. Not chocolate swirl. Chocolate swirl is not good with chocolate sauce.”
“Your parents are coming?”
“Martin, get the ice cream, then I’ll tell you the whole thing.”
Martin scooped. He carried the bowl—butter pecan, chocolate sauce, whipped cream over the whole thing—back to the dining room table and put it down in front of Peter.
“And coffee.”
“Peter—”
Martin growled, poured coffee, and plunked down opposite Peter.
Peter told him about his mother’s call. “That reminds me. Dad drinks Scotch, and Mom drinks gin. We’ll have to buy booze.”
“‘We?’”
“Hope you’ll be here, Martin.”
“If you want me. Guess it’s going to be rough. They haven’t seen you since you started losing weight? Oh, boy.” Martin clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Thought about how you’re going to tell them? Want to practice with me or anything?”
“I’m not going to tell them.”
Martin blinked. “I mean about AIDS. And being gay.”
“I’m not going to tell them, Martin.”
“Peter, what are you talking about? One look at you and they’ll know.”
“Know what? I told my mom I had pneumonia, and that it was bad, and so she’s expecting me to be puny.”
Martin put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Peter, my friend, you’re worse than puny.”
“I don’t care, Martin. I don’t want them to know. I couldn’t stop them from coming, but I’ll fool them somehow.”
“Why?” Martin said. “Why don’t you just tell them?”
“Because they’d never forgive me.”
“Forgive you? Peter—”
“They wouldn’t, Martin. I know. Will you help me?”
“God.