Flying to New Mexico

Flying to New Mexico

I loath the airplane motor,
insisting in reminding me that I’m flying to New Mexico,
where we set up house as “us,” but there is no more us;
to that dry aridness,
so thick that it watered my forehead
every time I stepped into our back yard;
but you rushed to me, always,
with your green cotton towel, and cleansed me while cooing,
“you are my sweet sweat lover;”
which sounds funny now, because, I never sweat,
except still-now, when I breathe this air.

I squirm inside this airplane,
white-knuckling the armrest,
wishing the stewardess would drop dead,
with her peanuts and soft drinks,
and “Lift your seatbacks!” and “Clear the aisles!”
intruding my half-wake, half-sleep memories
of your hairy chest, shirtless, wiry and lean,
moving tub-sized rocks in our red sands garden,
and I called out to you, “watch the cactus Peter!,”
because, I’ll pull no more thorns from the palm of your hand,
and you gave me that stubborn grin,
which I always loathed,
as you never did get that chipped tooth fixed;
and I called you careless and handsome, and you said,
“Ernesto still-now, you are my sweet sweat lover”

I feel the airplane landing,
caught in the wicked mountain breeze
that always bathed our back yard,
and once it even knocked me into your sinewy arms,
but now it barely keeps pace with this airplane,
and I sweat as I hear the motor whisper:
“there is no us, there is no us, there is no we;”
and I cover my ears,
as the noise is insufferably loud,
and the stewardess says, “Prepare for landing!”
and the passengers quickly arrange their bags and coats,
ready to depart;
but all I’m doing is standing in the aisle,
still-now thinking how some day soon
I’ll learn to let your memories go,
let it vanish from my head, like sweat that dries,
fading insufferably slow, softly,
leaving me, cleansing and marking me.

Chupapito

Cocksucker


I apologized,
when I left her.
For we had been
the American Yuppie Dream.
Two incomes, no children. No love.

I appeased,
when we settled,
for too much money.
Her forgiveness I seek,
her permission to be
what I know I should be.

I am 40,
and we had been. . .
A lifetime, a union.
As friends, as lovers.
As husband and wife.

I regret, when I hear,
what she calls me today.
“Cocksucker,” I am branded.
A man who wants Dick.

Together 15 years,
And now these tears. . .
In relief or disbelief?
At what was, what is. . .
At wondering if I have missed. . .


A lifetime.

I Have Not Been Posting

I have not been posting lately (as in over two months). I hope and intend to resume soon. Nothing much happening, except I'm dating Reggie again. Hope to post soon. Ernesto.

P.S. to Myself: Who are you and what have you done with Ernesto? Why are you a happy soul again?

Male Bonding

Xavier and Gabriel are fraternal twins, one year younger than me. In physical appearance, however, they look nothing alike. Xavier has very straight, jet black hair that looks almost blue, and piercing grey eyes; they are Father’s hair and Father’s eyes. Gabriel looks like me; he has my curls, my deep-set green eyes, the crooked smile. When we were children in Buenos Aires many people thought that Gabriel and I were identical twins. “No,” would explain Mother, while pursing her red painted lips. “The twins are Gabriel and Xavier. The other one is the oldest brother.”

In addition to sharing our looks, Gabriel and I shared the same wicked mischievousness, and we were often partners in crime, enjoying the petty naughtiness that children normally love. One time, when I was 9 and he was 8, in 1967, when we were still living in Calle Winenberg (La Lucila, Buenos Aires), we decided to draw a ransom note, probably based on some movie we had seen the night before. We drew a stick figure of a man with a gun pointed to his head, and underneath the drawing, we wrote in our best infantile handwriting, “If you don’t give us all your money, we will kill you.” We doubled over with laughter as we put the note inside our neighbors mailbox and knocked on his door. I deepened my voice and screamed out for the neighbor to hear “¡Correo!” (“Mail Call!”)

We ran furiously and hid behind the bushes as the neighbor came out to check his mail. He was a young man, in his early thirties, clean shaven but with a permanent five o’clock shadow. I expected he would laugh or yell at us, or perhaps simply read the note and throw it out. Instead, as he read what we had left in his mailbox, his olive skin turned ghostly white, and he started shaking, thrusting his eyes around as if he were looking for someone. He nervously ran his fingers through his thick hair, and sweat poured down his forehead. Gabriel and I had not expected this, and I felt guilty for scaring this man; however, I staid behind the bush, holding my breath, saying nothing. I tried to cover Gabriel’s mouth, to keep him quiet as well, but he easily escaped my grip and ran towards the neighbor, waiving his arms. “It’s just a joke!” he screamed. “It’s not a real ransom note.” Slowly the man’s color came back to his face, then he turned red with anger. “¡Idiota!” he screamed at Gabriel, and he slammed the door.

As a child, ignorant of the world I lived in, it was unthinkable to me that the neighbor would take the ransom note seriously. As an adult, now aware of Argentina’s history and violence in the 1960’s, I understand that there was really nothing funny in threatening ransom and death. Fortunately, the foolishness Gabriel and I engaged in was not always of such politically incorrect nature. Usually we were satisfied simply riding around on our bicycles, aimlessly wandering through the streets of La Lucila. We preferred to ride without helmets, without hands on the handlebar and without applying any brakes. If there had been the same amount of traffic in those days as there is today, we would be dead. We didn’t respect a single stop sign; rather, we threw ourselves down the hills on our two wheelers as fast as we could possibly go without looking either way, laughing as the wind forced its way through our curly hair and seemingly crushed our small bodies. “I love you,” I would like to have said to Gabriel as we flew through the wind, but it would not have been necessary. He knew it.

* * *

It was inevitable that Gabriel and I would draw apart. As they grew older, Gabriel and Xavier expressed common interests in cars, mechanical things, sports and sport legends; things that bored me. They also spent a lot of time helping Father fix things or tinker with gadgets. When he was not at the office, or in the basement writing his dictionary that would never be published, Father was somewhere about the house fixing a door that fell, a vacuum cleaner that did not work, a washer that would not spin. “It’s a waste of time for you to be doing those things,” would say Mother, showcasing a new black dress. “Call the plumber and stop fucking around with that.”

Father would nod at Mother, to acknowledge he had heard what she had said, but ignoring her complaints all the same. He had no intention of calling a plumber or anyone else for that matter. It was not a question of money or wasting time, it was a matter of proving his usefulness as the man of the house, shining in the eyes of two of his boys, Xavier and Gabriel, teaching them the way around a tool. I took no part in this heterosexual ritual. Instead, I perfected the art of playing alone, creating a world of fantasy, writing bad plays in my mind and acting them out on an imaginary stage. I would put a blanket around my shoulders and suddenly I was the King of Persia. I put a bow in my hair, and I am an old maid, poor and single, on her way to ask for help from the King and if necessary give up her virtue to him. I put on Mother’s high heel shoes, and I became the Queen of the Sheba, determined of denying the King all his pleasures. Xavier, Gabriel and Father would stare at me opened mouth when they saw me in these get ups. I was clearly the odd man out.

* * *

There were signs. I knew but would not admit that I was attracted to men; I would not allow this to happen. Throughout College, I survived by burying myself in books, isolating myself from all social contacts, putting on blinders and acting as if men did not exist.

In Law School, where we were required to actively participate in class, it was impossible for me to remain an introvert. I was forced to come out of my walls of isolation if nothing else during class time when I was called upon. By coincidence or by consequence, I also started looking at men in a more open way, in an almost admittedly seductive way. I would notice, and would allow myself to enjoy, the chest hair shown by an open shirt, the strength of a man’s face (so unlike a woman’s), the smell of a guy. I did not act on these observations, other than secretly admitting that they gave me pleasure.

Among the men I began to take keen notice of was Daniel Champing, a fellow classmate. Daniel had dirty blond hair, thick eyebrows and brown eyes, ruddy but perfect complexion, and a dark blond moustache that made him look both cheesy and sexy at the same time. Daniel was gregarious, well liked by other students, and (to my pleasure), fairly hairy. I was mesmerized by his eyes, and almost from the day I saw him in class I kept staring at him. Daniel would stare right back at me, which both frightened and confused me. “What’s he looking at?” I thought. “Does he think I’m gay?”

It was also during Law School that Father and I started communicating for the first time. We finally had something in common other than our genes; we could now talk about the Law. Father had been trained as a lawyer in Argentina, and I was eager to show him I now knew as much as he did. During my first semester, we studied the insanity defense. I was fascinated with this legal principle, and was determined to teach Father all about it. “Laypeople don’t understand the insanity defense,” I told Father, all cocky and sure. “They think its some sort of sham, a lawyer’s trick. I understand the insanity defense. I understand that an insane person is capable of committing a crime not because of evil but because of delusion; and it is not appropriate to condemn a man for his delusions.”

I had had the same conversation that day with Daniel Champing. Daniel was not satisfied by our long glances across the class room. One morning he simply came and sat next to me, introduced himself formally (as we had never really spoken), and proceeded to engage me in conversation as if we had been friends for a long time. He was charming, flawlessly handsome in my mind, and forbidden fruit. I spoke to him only of legal theory, course materials, moot court competition; I was afraid to discuss anything too personal with him lest he would know.

The beauty of talking law with Father in those law school days is that while I chattered legal theory, green behind the ears, Father would give me examples of the actual practice of law. “When I was a new lawyer in Buenos Aires,” he said to me in response to my discourse on the insanity defense, “one of my clients, Raúl Osvaldo, had a son who committed murder. It was a fairly scandalous case with lots of publicity. The boy, Juan Osvaldo, had killed a fellow friend, about sixteen years old. When Raúl asked me to represent his son, I tried to explain to him that I was a corporate attorney, not a criminal lawyer, but Raúl was persistent. He was the kind of man who trusts only those he knows, and takes his time to know someone. Since my practice was fairly new and I did not want to lose Raúl’s business, I conceded to his request and represented Juan Osvaldo, frequently consulting with one of my law school mates who had expertise in criminal law.”

I thought it was fascinating and out of character that Father had done some criminal work. I had always pictured him as a stale corporate rat working behind a desk (kind of what I have now become). The next day, I shared this tidbit with Daniel Champing, gloating that Father was a sort of Perry Mason. It may have been the first time I had ever spoken to Daniel about anything in the least bit personal. I even gave him details of Father’s quirkiness, and his physical appearances. “He’s not at all like me,” I said. “He has a full set of jet black hair, very straight, with some graying at the temples now. His eyes are grey-blue, and they get lighter as he ages.” I was surprised by Daniel’s response. “He sounds sexy!” he said. I did not laugh; made not comment.

When Father interviewed Juan Osvaldo, it was clear to him that the young man was insane. “He was a poor soul, schizophrenic no doubt. He kept telling me his brother did it, then he would change the story and say that his dog had done it. I’m sure they have drugs these days to deal with this condition,” said Father. “But back then, it was terra nova. The case was difficult, as there were fingerprints and eyewitnesses, so there was really no defense other than pleading insanity.” At about the same time, the boy’s father, Raúl Osvaldo, found out that his business partner had been embezzling for years and had fled the country with what little money was left. Raúl had to declare bankruptcy and he had no way of paying Father’s legal fees and expenses. Father still had a lot of work to prepare and present in court in order to ensure that Juan would not be incarcerated. He kept working on the case, even though he was never paid. Eventually the judge ordered that the boy be put in an insane asylum.

I retold this story to Daniel many times, sometimes embellishing the details, dragging out the events. Daniel and I shared many personal conversations after that. Nothing extraordinary, all within the realm of the normal chit chat among friends. But for me it was monumental. It was the first time that I had a friend who I knew or suspected was gay. It pleased me to be able to have such a friend; in my mind it confirmed that I was not homophobic, and therefore not gay myself.

One day, Daniel surprised me by telling me that he was feeling depressed. “I find myself riding buses, and crying for no reason,” he told me. “The doctors says I have blue balls. Do you know what that is? It means that I have not had sex in a long time and I need to get me some!”

This was the early 1980’s. Daniel starting missing class. He had a persistent cold, a fever that would last several weeks. He was always malaise. At the end of the semester, he took a sabbatical. Daniel never came back to Law School to graduate. We later learned he died of AIDS.

* * *

“And he never paid you?” I asked Father, regarding the Juan and Raúl Osvaldo case.

“He did what he could,” answered Father. “He had owned a glass making factory, which he put into liquidation. He paid me with crystal glasses, tumblers, even crystal jars, all from the same matching set. Mother never got over that I worked for free, or for a miserable set of glasses, as she calls it.”

Mother walked in at that moment. I was sitting closer to Father than I had ever sat before. Mother looked at us as if we were conspiring. She was holding a crystal glass, with ice and whiskey. “¿Qué hacen ustedes?” she asked (“What are you two doing?”). I recognized the crystal.

* * *

Father has bladder cancer. He is 86 years old, still handsome, with all his hair, now white, and still clear blue grey eyes. In his typical stubbornness, he told no one that for months he had been suffering from blood in his urine. The pain finally became intolerable even for him, and he had to be rushed to the hospital where they made the cancer diagnosis. They scrapped his bladder to remove polyps and sent him back home with a catheter.

It’s been several months now since that event and he appears to be recovering. At 86, they will not take any drastic measures. They will treat him with radiation for about eight weeks; after that, there are no assurances.

Gabriel’s wife has invited everyone for dinner for no reason, except we all know it is meant to cheer up Father. I have come by myself without the kids. Anne has taken them to New York, to visit her own father, Vincent. They have finally began to make their peace. I’m feeling lonely at this family reunion, unshielded, without my kids, without a spouse. Xavier and Gabriel are flanked by their spouses and their kids, three of them each. I’m the odd man out. Mother is in the living room, lavishing inordinate amounts of attention on her grandchildren, relegating adult conversation to the side. She is quizzing Gabriel’s daughter, Katarina, who is four yours old and apparently has been taught to do some math. Mother finds this fascinating.

I tire of family events where children appear to be the focus of attention. Father is not much of a fan of this custom either, and he quietly exits the living room to sit in the porch, away from the noise. I follow him.

“¿Como estás?” I ask him.

“I’m feeling phenomenal,” he claims. “Never felt better.” He would never admit to feeling ill or tired, but I can tell he has lost a lot of weight.

“Have you been following the government wire tap story?” I ask. “Seems a clear constitutional violation to me.” It’s always back to this beaten track between Father and me, the common fascination with the legal system. Normally, Father would eagerly jump on this conversation. He loves politics and law. He says nothing, however. He stares into space, which he often does when thinking. I have the same habit There’s a long silence. We both pretend to be listening to the conversation in the living room with the kids. “How much is 4 plus 4?” says Mother to Katarina. She knows the answer.

“Where’s Reggie?” asks Father. This surprises me. Reggie and I have not dated in nearly a year, and before that Father only met him once or twice. I didn’t think he remembered or even noticed Reggie in my life.

“We are not dating anymore,” I tell him. I’m uncomfortable using the word “dating” with Father. Obviously he knows I’m gay, but still, some things one does not discuss with his dad.

“Too bad,” he says. “I liked him.”

Mother and Katarina are still doing math. All the adults in the living room cheer in unison each time Katarina answers simple math equations.

“Are you dating anyone then?” asks Father.

This takes away my breath. Did I hear him right?

“No,” I answer. “I have sort of given up on dating, for now.”

Father looks up into to air again. He’s thinking again. We continue our long silence. “Two times two?” asks Mother in the living room.

Father looks at me again. “Just for now,” he says to me, looking me straight in the eye. “Stop dating just for now. Eventually, I want you to meet a nice guy. I want you to be happy.”

I don’t say anything.

“Father, come in here quick!” screams Mother from the living room. “Katarina knows the multiplications table!”

Canto de Un Amargo

He escrito sobre este dolor antes, cuando la soledad miserable poco tiempo después de que te fuistes de mi vida, era todavía sofocante, y ojalá pudiera decirte que cuando pienso de tu cara pálida, tus brazos peludos, tu sonrisa fenomenal, vuelvo a extrañarte tanto como el primer día que te marchastes; pero he borrado esas memorias olvidadas, quité todo lo tuyo de mi vida soltera, despejé sin remordimientos las fotos de nosotros dos, juntos y contentos, eché a quemar, a carcajadas, los libros que me distes, boté a la basura las tonterías que los maricas se compran un al otro y que tu me regalastes . . . date ya cuenta que todo eso se echó a desperdiciar ya casi seis años, y es imposible de rescatarlo. Hoy, lo único que recuerdo de tu ausencia, es (como ves) que me has transformado en bestia amarga, y por eso no te perdono.

Your Absence

I have written about you before, when I was still raw with the pain of missing you, and I wish I could tell you that I read these melodramatic passages today and feel the solace as fresh as the day you left me, but I threw out all those papers and cleared my desk of all your photographs, the books you gave me, the silly knick knacks that men buy for men and that you bought for me, and it has all now been in the garbage for nearly six years so it is unlikely I will find those things again. Today, all I can say about your absence is that it has jaded me, and for that I no longer love you.

The Beating

The nearest thing to forgiveness is silence, simply not mentioning what happened, acting still after all these years as if the beating they inflicted on me never occurred, which is ironic since it has colored every aspect, every single moment of my life. Yet, I love them.

My Wish

The truest of tender moments are the ones where we are not aware of ourselves, in each other's company, sitting silently side by side, each occupied with our very different tasks, but each knowing, in the profoundest of his heart, that he is loved by the other. Men in love.

I Thought I Would Laugh

It is 1998, and I am all of 40 years old. Patrick and I are lunching in Town Centre, Reston, Virginia. The atmosphere here, in these parts of the DC Suburbs, is sterile, prefabricated. Town Center was ostensibly constructed to resemble an old downtown in a prosperous town, except it looks like no downtown I have ever seen. The East Coast downtowns I’m familiar with have a felicitous blend of architectures, where newer buildings make no effort to copy the forms of the existing buildings. Thus you can see an 1800’s townhouse standing next to a 1960’s glass box, adjacent to a 1950’s brick tower, and they all work marvelously together because of their individuality. All the buildings in Town Center, Reston Virginia, in these part of the DC Suburbs, were built at the same time, religiously constructed and designed for homogeneity, and artificially quaint. I hate Town Center.

* * *

My first boyfriend, like so many who came after him, was a man separated from the Church. In his case, Patrick was a defrocked monk.

I don’t want to tell how I met this ex-monk, when I was only 40 years old, still married, and at the verge of a nervous breakdown. Each morning in those days I would drive to work in tears (tears which I did not understand), and obsession, a new found fascination in the idea (still then only an idea, not yet tried out by me) of having sex with men. With that fixation in my mind and in my loins, with the Washington Blade in one hand and a telephone on the other, I dialed the number of someone who advertised in the gay personals as “Masculine, witty and perverse. Call me.” It was Patrick.

* * *

Patrick is funny. As we eat, he has his legs wide open, and his right thigh rubs against my left thigh, as if it had happened accidentally. I’m intrigued by his unabashed sexuality. I know he is an intelligent man; he is a school teacher in the City, and his students love him (as well as he loves them). He devours books, able to read an entire saga in one night (contrasted to my slow methodical reading pace, mandated by my dyslexia). But what most intrigues me are his picaresque sexual adventures. I envy his liberty and sexuality, and it makes me laugh, his manner of talking cheers me, his way of being lightens me. I need to laugh, because every morning I cry and sometimes I think I cannot go forward like this.

* * *

Patrick was my first; my first boyfriend; my first male sexual experience; my first fun in the sun. All the time I was with him, I lived in fear of being caught, but not sufficient fear as would prevent me unzipping my pants. My organ happily enjoyed the delicacies to which Patrick introduced us. I was fascinated both by the sex with him as with his world, so different than mine. My background was one of obeying rules, staying within the boundaries, at all cost not acting like “un maricón.” Patrick, who was the youngest son in a military family of six boys, where testosterone and masculinity abounded, excelled in flouting the rules. His father was a general in the army, and to Patrick’s utter delight, they lived on a military base, full of rules and regulations but, most importantly, full of soldiers, male soldiers to be precise. Starting at the tender age of five, Patrick enjoyed observing the beauty of the male body, and of taking advantage of every situation for satisfying his sexual desires.

Initially, he was satisfied by making believe he was unaware of his surroundings as he conveniently played ball (by himself) in front of the communal shower. Conveniently, his ball would wonder next to the window to the showers, and Patrick would take a long hard stare inside, where the soldiers were bathing nakedly and unawares. “With my five year old eyes,” told me Patrick, “I saw the biggest, hairiest cocks I have seen my whole life. To this day I have seen nothing like it. Imagine my delight at salivating over those masculine bodies, well worked out, their skin glistening with warm water, their pubes dark and abundant, their tools delightful as they jiggled, up and down, while being rubbed by their own rough hands and soft white soap.”

“And your parents?” I would ask. “Weren’t you afraid they would find out?”

“It never crossed my mind,” would answer Patrick dismissively, as if this were an alien thought. He had no understanding of fearing one’s elders, fear of discipline.

* * *

We are lunching next to the faux (as in fake) beaux arts fountain, not made of bronze, copper or cement but reinforced plastic, incapable of cracking. It is spitting water into the wind, and Patrick’s heavily starched shirt is getting wet. He dries it with a napkin and crows with a grin. He is telling me one of his many tales of sexual conquest, which make me double up. “So, I did him anyway,” is the punch line to the story he has just finished telling me.

The lady wearing pearl earrings, sitting next to us, picking at her brown-bagged lunch, raises an eyebrow and shakes her head. My twitching hands drop mustard on Patrick’s big shoes, size 11 ½. He uses the napkin to clean this too.

Patrick chews, chews, deliberately and slow. He sips, loudly, and stares, blankly. His green eyes peek gently above the cup. “So,” he gasps. “Here we are.”

Two men, smoking next-too-close to us, stroke their tummy-bellies, which are large and round, not flat and rippled, like Patrick’s. I want to have him now, I want to make him hoot. “So,” he gasps again.

I have yet to have sex with men other than Patrick, and even with him we have only slept five times. I can count then, I can remember each and every one of them. I am very interested in Patrick, and he in me, but I am afraid of being with him. He has so many years of experience, and I just now, at age 40, am entering the world of sex with men. Except for that one time, the one I never talk about.

* * *

While in his early youth, Patrick’s adventures were limited to watching men bathe (or undress, or urinate, or swim naked, or whatever other stage of nudity he could catch them in); but, as he grew older, he wanted more out of sex. His true training commenced at age 11, when he noticed that two rather handsome soldiers routinely excused themselves from the rest of the troops to take a walk together in the woods. Without knowing why, but knowing instinctively that the two men would divulge to him an Edenic secret, Patrick followed them one day. In the darkness of the woods, the two mouths of those young men sucked every bodily part which they eagerly exposed to each other. For the first time, Patrick’s penis not only got hard, it got wet; a white liquid rushed out of him and caused him to experience the most exquisite pleasure he had felt in all his young life. Patrick returned many times to those woods, and he met not only the same young couple but many other men as well, sometimes even in groups of three or more, giving themselves the Edenic pleasure to which Patrick was now addicted. He eagerly joined the fun.

“The first time that I saw a man put a dick in another man,” said Patrick to me, as we both laughed, “I thought to myself, THAT is what I want; THAT is what I want to be doing.”

“Giving or receiving?” I asked, innocently.

“Both things!” he screamed at me. “There’s no reason why one should discriminate among such pleasures.” We both laughed ferociously in response to Patrick’s camp.

“And how old were you when you finally learned the pleasure yourself, experienced a man inside you or you in him?” I asked, midstream an outburst of laughter.

“Twelve years old,” he answered, matter-of-factly.

I was no longer laughing. “And how old was he?”

“25 or 30 I suppose. I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

I don’t laugh. “Because I think you were a victim of a crime, sexually. A man has no right to do that to a child.”

“Maybe not,” answered Patrick, almost reflectively; and then, once more with his campy voice, “But he did nothing to me child, I did it all to him and with great pleasure!” and we starting laughing again.

* * *

I want to tell Patrick something funny; I want him to know that I can also be humorous, intelligent. I think that perhaps the story of my first adventure (the secret, the thing that I share with no one, not even with you dear reader), will be amusing to tell. I decide to do it.

“You know what,” I say to him, with a chuckle in my voice. “I have a secret to tell you.” Patrick’s eyes grow wide; I have captured his attention. “I have always told you that you were the first man I had sex with, but there was a kid in my youth with whom I did one or two things.” The chuckle is no longer in my voice.

“How old were you?” asks Patrick.

“We were young, both of us 12 years old; and at that age, boys are getting to know themselves. We showed each other our pee-pees, and then, instinctively, without it being necessary for any one to teach us how, we sucked each other.”

Patrick is not laughing. I don’t understand why. I had thought that this story would be fun. “Go on,” he says.

“Well, it was fun, and like a big fool I proceeded to tell Xavier and Gabriel all about it, bragging about my new found sexual pleasures. They, in turn, told Mother and Father, and the rest you can imagine.” My eyes start to tear, but I a force out a small giggle, badly acted.

* * *

What Patrick had as a child in addition to an incredible libido, was an incredible mind and a strange devotion to religion. After college, he joined the Benedictine order in a monastery in New Mexico. His mission would be to Ora et Labora (“Pray and Work”). He hoped desperately to exercise both his mind and religiosity, thereby squelching the libido; but the libido prevailed. It did not take long for Patrick to learn that both in and out of the monastery their was sex waiting for him at every turn.

“Poor me,” explained Patrick. “I was determined to change everything and to leave my sexual misadventures behind. On my very first day off, I decided to take a short walk and enjoy nature, everything that Santa Fe has to offer. I should put my mind in a place of tranquility, is what I said to myself. So here I am, walking the tree lined streets of Santa Fe, with my monk’s robe flapping in the air, and I stumble into a small park. What beauty, I thought. I go into the park, and you already know what I found there – a flock of homosexuals doing things to each other which even I had never done before. I lifted my skirts, exposing my very firm dick, and I let Tom, Dick and Harry give themselves some pleasure with the wafer I offered between my legs.”

* * *

Patrick does not laugh at my story of first sexual exploit. “What is it that happened?” he asks me. “Go on, you need to tell me.”

“Well, what happened is that Mother and Father confronted me with it. ‘Who taught you such things?’ they insisted. ‘How dare you! Shameless! ¡Es vergonzoso!’ And with that, the beating began.”

First with the hands. Then with the belt. They whipped me for what I believe must have been an hour. Perhaps even two. Xavier and Gabriel were witnesses; they screamed “Don’t hit him anymore!” But Mother and Father would not stop and Xavier and Gabriel ceased their screams, watching the beating, silently.

* * *

Patrick, in spite of his sexual desires, was a reasonable man, and he himself realized he could not run around the streets of Santa Fe in a monk’s robe, looking for sex with men. That same day, when he returned to the monastery, he sought help from Brother Jacob, an elder monk, 40years old, who had been assigned as his spiritual mentor. I doubt that the following really occurred in this manner, but it is how Patrick told it to me as we both cackled hysterically.

Patrick knocked on the door of Brother Jacob’s room. Their was no answer, and after a few more knocks, each louder than the one before, just about the time Patrick was ready to leave, Brother Jacob answered in a slurred voice, “En----ter!”

Timidly, Patrick opened the chamber door, where he found Brother Jacob on his knees, in front of a crucifix, praying. I almost forgot to report that Brother Jacob, although 40 years old, was extremely attractive, a la mode of Sean Connery. The hair from his chest came out from under the neck of his robe, and the black hair of his arms, masculinely attractive, came out from under his sleeves to entirely cover the back of his hands and the knuckles on his fingers. He was an animal, but with a brain. Patrick happily fantasized whenever he saw Brother Jacob, thinking of doing the felicitously dirty sexual deed with that passionate furry creature. Next to Brother Jacob was a bottle of whiskey, and a glass with ice. He had been drinking.

“Patrick, come sit next to me. Would you like to pray with me? There is so much sin in the world for which we must beg forgiveness. It’s a task that never ends.” His black eyes, framed by his dark eyebrows that look like paint brushes, stared at Patrick with impure sensuality. (He is an animal, thought Patrick.)

“I must confess to you, Brother Jacob,” said Patrick. “I need your help.”

Brother Jacob kept praying. His animalistic eyes were now shut tight, like lids on a jar. His bestial hands were held up in prayer, fingers pointing towards the heavens. His lips rounded out the words to Psalm 23, but his voice uttered no sound. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. (mumble mumble mumble) He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. (mumble mumble, hiccup) Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they are next to me. . . (hiccup).

“They comfort me,” Patrick corrects Jacob. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Brother Jacob does not smile. He stares at Patrick, with desire in his mind. He takes a sip of encouragement from his bottle “What do you wish to confess, Patrick?”

Patrick does not know how to proceed. He does not know if he should confess to this hirsute brute that today he has had sex in a public park, and that in all honesty (as far as honesty will go), he wishes to end all of that; or, should he confess to this sexual animal, repugnant though he is, that he wants to sleep with hairy Brother Jacob?

“Bless me Brother, for I have sinned.” That is all that he said, and all that Brother Jacob needed to hear. With those few words, Brother Jacob understood all.

“Come, kneel next to me.” Patrick is obedient. Side by side, Patrick’s youthful smooth skin, Irish white, glows next to Brother Jacob’s brutish arms, densely pilose. The older man took his chance, and unabashedly kissed young Patrick. They undressed. Just as Patrick had suspected, Jacob is pure hair, from neck to toe, from the back of his shoulders to the crack in his ass, from under his arms to the pubes around his member; and the member was enormous. The sensual beast forced Patrick to taste his organ, followed by other pleasurable abuses, entering inside Patrick many times that night. Patrick’s legs and muscles hurt for a long time after that, his throat and other orifices were inflamed from the deep penetrations. DRAMA! “But I loved it,” says Patrick. “I had found my heaven on Earth, and it was shaggier than I had imagined.” We laughed.

* * *

Everything seems to be taking place in slow motion. I can see the belt being raised slowly into the air, coming down towards me at the pace of a falling feather, then miraculously welting against my skin, with unexpected force and hurt. They left me wounded, black and blue all over. I think at some point they got scared because I stopped crying and simply laid there, empty of emotion, accepting the punishment. My silence was more terrifying to them than my screams. They stopped the beating.

* * *

The illicit relationship between Jacob and Patrick did not last very long, one year, perhaps 19 months. At first, Patrick would anxiously submit himself to fulfilling the sexual desires of his spiritual mentor, daily (or should we say nightly, under the black light and secretness of the night). But little by little, Patrick began to desire less of the hirsute sexual animal, and to take notice of those around him. And amongst those around him, Patrick came to know Jesús de La Cruz (Jesus of the Cross). Just like me, Jesús de La Cruz was Hispanic (except I’m Anglo-Argentine, Jesús is Mexican-Indian). Just like me, Jesús de La Cruz (who is exceedingly feminine, and I hope in this respect not deemed like me), was in complete denial of his sexuality. And, just like me, Jesús de La Cruz had his first homosexual experience with Patrick.

In agonizingly small steps, Patrick befriended Jesús de La Cruz. Jesús was hesitant to accept Patrick’s friendship, for he knew what it entailed. Patrick, however, prevailed, and in six months he had bedded him. At the same pace, moment by moment, Patrick withdrew himself from his relationship with Jacob. It was inevitable that everyone in the monastery would learn of the loving relationship between Patrick and Jesús. “We were not very discreet” admitted Patrick. “As you know, I have an appetite that is never satisfied. When I saw my petite Jesús walking the hall one day in his robes, with the skirt caressing his round cheeks. . . . I ask you, who would not do what I did, right there and then?” He plowed Jesús in the halls, where all could see.

* * *

That night after the beating, once in bed, I shivered incessantly, unable to stop my legs and arms from twitching. They probably should have taken me to the hospital. Mother came to check on me, putting her soft hand (which smelled of blue carnations perfume) up against my burning forehead. “Are you alright?” she asked. I did not answer.

* * *

The investigation into Jesús and Patrick’s affair was quick and the decision decisive. Jacob and a Father Murphy, the priest for the monastery, were put in charge of escorting Patrick and Jesús out of the building.

“After almost three years in that God awful place, they put us out on the street with nothing other than the few dollars we had in our pockets. I remember waiting for the bus with Jesús and, wouldn’t you know, the cliché is true: it was raining. We did not even have an umbrella. Soaked, like wet paper, we got on the first bus that came and started a new life, Jesús and I.”

* * *

I can’t go on telling my story to Patrick. These are memories that I choose never to remember; memories which I have told no one, ever. I thought that Patrick would see the humor in all of it, and that the two of us would have a good belly chortle at the conclusion of my story. Instead, I commenced to cry, first slowly then torrentially, letting escape a wail that had been in me for 28 years. A howl that does not end. I weep like a child, in front of the whole world. In front of the lady wearing her pearls. In front of the two men smoking cigarettes. I don’t care, I cannot stop crying. Patrick consoles me, giving me his hand.

* * *

Patrick and Jesús were together for two months after their defrocking. After they broke up, they never saw each other again. “But darling,” explained Patrick, “Don’t get sad about that! In our new city I found many other parks and the stories I could tell you about those adventures will leave you wet.” He told me all of them.

* * *

“My first was really something too,” I say on cue. He nods and I continue. “The folks found out, and beat me blue.” I thought we would laugh. But I cry. Patrick pats my legs with his hirsute hands. He draws me near, without fear of the glares and the stares. He kisses me gently, to conclude: “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it.”

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­-____________________________________________________________________-

What I Chose to Remember

In February 1967, when I was nine, my parents took us to Córdoba (Argentina) for summer holidays. We packed into our Jeep, and drove 600 miles from Buenos Aires to the country’s heart. We traveled through the plains of El Chaco, monotonous, flat, planted only with sunflowers. Butterflies swarmed the roads. I chose to lie on the floor of the car, where all I could see out the window where white clouds and blue skies. When we arrived to Córdoba, the radiator of the Jeep was covered with dead butterflies. “Martyrs of the road trip,” my mother called them. My brothers, Xavier and Gabriel, and I peeled their silky wings off the radiator, and added them to our make believe collection.

Gabriel and I were the first to run inside the hotel. The desk clerk, an albino, wanted to know how long we would stay. Her eyes were pale, unfocussed. Her hair was straw-like, brittle. Gabriel and I stared at the albino, examined, wondered. Afterwards, Mother gave an account of the woman’s condition. “They can’t go in the sunlight,” she explained, which sounded like a child’s truth, fantinformation. An albino clerk, half-human, half vampire, forced to work in a dark hotel lobby, protected from the sun.

The next morning we packed a picnic, slipped into our bathing suits and drove to a nearby river. The waters were rapid. Perhaps not strong enough to carry adults, but fast enough for Xavier, Gabriel and me. Our small bodies felt like clouds, tossed carelessly, freely into the waters. We had no fear. We laughed, even though the currents occasionally sucked us in and covered our heads. Father looked on. Anxious? I don’t know.

After taking our fill, we slipped out of the river, shivering. Gabriel pointed at my stomach, and shouted, frightened. “¡¿Qué te pasó?!” (What happened to you!?) All three of us were covered with leeches, front and back. I shrieked like a little girl. Mother drew us to her carefully laid out picnic blanket, calmly reached for the salt shaker, and carefully removed the leeches (one by one) by pouring salt on their backs. Each left a small reddish mark behind (its bite) as it was pulled off the skin. When the de-leeching (de-lousing?) was done, we snacked (delighted), on picnic food, hard boiled eggs with salt and warm tea served out of a picnic thermos.

To this day, I can savor the aroma of that tea.

* Anne’s Story *

It is five in the morning.

“Rats!”

Anne wakes up frightened. It’s happened again. She has fallen asleep on the couch. The Wall Street Journal is wrapped around her legs, like a blanket. She always means to read the WSJ, like her grandfather, who made a fortune investing in stocks. Her intent every night is to study the financial sections, become more business savvy, astute; but she can never get past the first article.

“Rats,” she says, again, to herself. She is dreading this day. She has to tell the New Mexico lab that she’s pulling the contract. They’ve made too many mistakes, and the entire protocol is suspect. Unfortunately, they’ve solicited the assistance of a powerful Senator, and he has already raised the alarms that his “beloved State of New Mexico, has a lot at stake in this project!” It was inevitable that she would get called directly from Faucci’s office, questioning whether she had sufficiently considered the “political sensitivities” of the project.

She’s fretting the conference call scheduled for this morning. “To hell with it,” she says, firmly, into the air for no one to hear but her own delicate pink ears. “Let’s go in and get this done. They messed up, and that’s that. I’m going to rip them a new anal passage.”

She uncovers the bird cage. She loves the sound the canary makes. It always sings around six in the evening, shortly before she covers it up for the night. Only the male canaries sing. She knows that in Victorian times the clever aristocrats, with nothing on their hands other than idle time, figured out that a canary would not sing if it saw another male. So, in order to get them to sing in a room full of birds, they would blind all the males canaries, using red hot needles. “So cruel,” thinks Anne. “So cruel.”

Joey is awake. He always rises when he hears his mother walking around in the kitchen. He likes to keep her company; her only male companion. Christina will not wake for another hour. Joey knows to be silent so as not to wake his sister. “Hi Mommy.”

It’s fifteen minutes after five, the loveliest time of the day, when darkness and silence are precious, sensuous. Joey likes the quiet as well. “Joey, sweetie,” says his mother. “Go se if you can find Kitty.”

Joey is very gentle with animals. It’s strange, because throughout most of the day, like most nine year old boys, he likes to pretend as if nothing matters, as if everything is boring, or girly, or “lame.” His favorite expressions lately are “Sucker!,” and “Faked you out!” He tries so hard to play tough, but he is still, truly, only a child. His blond silky hair, his eyes which are too expressive, almost feminine. Without doubt, he is what you would call a pretty boy; almost too pretty. So he tries to overcome his physical angelic looks by acting like a punk. Except with animals. With them, he shows nothing but gentleness.

* * *

It is six in the morning.

While Joey hunts the cat, Anne goes to her garden, to tend to the Beefsteak Tomatoes, the very biggest of her crop. Their pulp cavity is small, compressed, distorted by the overgrown placenta wall, giving them the 'marbled' appearance of a steak. Anne loves to experiment planting different varieties of beefsteaks, judging each type by the density of its flesh, its juiciness, its firmness or softness when ripe, and the feel and texture of the central core.

* * *

Before the divorce, but after he had told her that he was gay and was leaving her no matter what, Anne’s husband insisted that they consult a marriage counselor. “What for?” she asked. “So that some babble specialist can tell me that I should stop complaining about my life?”

“No,” he answered. “So that some babble specialist can help us get through this without destroying each other, and without harming our kids.” Joey was two years old at the time, and Christina was nothing more than an in vitro specimen, waiting to be injected into Anne’s uterus.

In the marriage counselor’s office, her husband sat near the counselor, with his legs spread open, his back leaning, eagerly wanting to give his side of the story. Anne sat on a couch in the far side of the room, feeling ambushed, alone. She kept on her sunglasses, even though the room was dark. There was no way she was going to give her fag husband the pleasure of knowing that she had been crying for days, that her eyes were swollen, her lids black from lack of sound sleep.

“Call me Henry,” said the counselor. “I believe in starting things off on a first name basis.”

(Call me Doctor Monroe, thought Anne. God knows I worked enough years to earn my medical degree.)

“Well, well, well,” continued Henry, in an exaggerated jovial tone, to the point of annoyance. He was wearing a white shirt, stained with mustard, and a cheap tie which, in Anne’s eyes, made him look vulgar. Instantaneously, Anne knew she would not like this man. “Tell me what’s going on?” continued Henry.

Anne took a small sip of water from her plastic bottle. Under normal circumstances, she hated bottles with labels, she considers it an affectation of the mediocre. There’s nothing wrong with tap water as far she is concerned. But when Henry offered them something to drink, she accepted gladly. She would sip liquids the entire hour; anything to keep busy and not having to contribute to this charade.

Her husband was the first to speak (as usual, thought Anne).

“We’ve been married for fifteen years,” says her husband, without looking at her; his eyes are focused on Henry. “I adore Anne. She is my best friend, my lover, my partner. But I’ve decided that I’m gay, homosexual if you will, and I can’t go on with this marriage.”

(That’s it, thought Anne. Fifteen years of marriage summed up in less than three complete sentences. That’s all I mean to him, the life I dedicated to him. Fifteen years of supporting him through each of his imagined crisis, of feeding his bottomless pit of a stomach, of sharing his neurotic anguishes and joys; now forgotten, cast aside because he has decided he is a “happy gay” man.) Anne says nothing. She takes another sip of her water.

Henry is busy taking notes, writing down everything that Anne’s husband says. (Not really that difficult to remember, thinks Anne. You can stop taking notes, Henry. It’s a simple case really: Woman falls in love. Woman gets married. Woman is rejected. Man leaves her. Quite easy to remember, Henry. It happens all the time, except this time it’s happened to me, damn it!) Again, Anne says nothing.

“And you?” asks Henry. “What do you thing about all this, Anne? How are you feeling about it?”

(Don’t do it, Henry, thinks Anne. Don’t use your fifth grade Freudian tricks on me. I wasn’t trained in one of the best medical schools in the country so that some quack like, with mustard stains and cheap clothes, could sit here in judgment of my life.) Anne says nothing.

After a few more sips of water, Anne finally decides to speak. “I think it was all a lie,” she says, confidently, not betraying the insecurity she feels inside. As always, her voice is steady and elegant, as taught to her by her mother, Celeste. Manners matter, was Celeste’s motto; manners and poise.

“It was not a lie!” interjects her husband. He sounds like a spoiled child. Sometimes Anne does not even understand why she loves him. “I always loved you,” he says. (He lies, she thinks.)

“So whatever happened to the promises you made me,” adds Anne, still calmly, still with poise (still crying inside). “You told me you would be my husband for the rest of our lives.”

It’s ironic that Anne brings up the marriage vows he made to her. Those were the exact words, or the exact sentiment, he vowed to her when they got married. He had written them himself. “I promise faithfulness our entire lives.”

They were married in a garden ceremony, in Agnes’s backyard. Agnes is Anne’s sister. Anne was not convinced that it was necessary to have a ceremony, with a minister and everything. She would have been happy with a civil wedding at City Hall. Anne does not believe in God, she does not believe that there is another universe beyond what we have in this life, this planet. Unlike most humans, Anne does not need to believe in a God that punishes evil and rewards good deeds. It is not necessary to believe in such myths in order to act nobly, she thought. Anne has always been a responsible citizen. She cooks weekly for a homeless shelter in Bethesda. She was worked in free medical clinics. She traveled throughout Africa, assisting governments in establishing AIDS prevention and treatment programs. Her medical career has been dedicated to the public sector. Her husband has always thought there was never a more honest person than Anne, and at the same time there are few that are as fervently agnostic as Anne.

Her husband insisted that they have a quasi-religious wedding ceremony. They were married by a minister of the Unitarian Church, a converted Jew. At least the minister was a likeable guy, interested in human rights and charitable causes.

“I did give you an entire life,” protests her husband in Henry’s office. “Fifteen years is a long time, and the person who made that promise to you no longer exists. I’m a different man now.”

(Not much of a man, thought Anne. Not much.)

They never went back to see Henry again.

* * *

Anne’s current favorite is Big Rainbow, a spectacular looking tomato, very large, initially very yellow. As the fruit ripens, it resembles a rainbow, with greenback shoulders, yellow in the middle, and red blushed pink on the blossom end. The flesh is marbled, red and orange, free of defects.

* * *

When she got divorced, her friends tried to set her up on dates. There was the policeman, who told her that he’s “all for the modern woman and so forth, but someone has to stay home to take care of things.” It was hard to remain friends with Linda, the clinical nurse who set her up on this date.

Then there was the electrician who was thirty years her senior, a fact that both he and the girlfriend who set her up forgot to mention. She considered dating him for a while since it’s so hard to find a good electrician these days and hereabouts, and there’s always something in need of electrical repair. Besides, if he’s good with wires, he’s probably also good with other stuff, like painting, patching up holes, fixing broken toilets. She seriously considered the idea, but on a heart to heart with her best girlfriend, Veronica (who pointed out that the guy was very close to heart attack age and that if anything, “he’s looking at you Anne, to take care of him!”), Anne decided to stop seeing the geriatric electrician. She just couldn’t bring herself to date a gomer for the handy man aspects of the relationship.

“What’s a gomer?” asked Veronica.

“Sorry, shop talk,” said Anne. “It’s medical slang. It means Get Out Of My Emergency Room (gomer). Doctors use it to refer to old patients who are a nightmare to take care of.”

Finally there was the very handsome architect who showed up with roses and too strong cologne. At dinner, just as she was about to dip shrimp into cocktail sauce, he announced as part of his “fair disclosure” speech that he likes to sleep with men from time to time.

“I hope that’s not a turn off for you,” he said, expecting that she would be intrigued by the idea. Anne was very proud that she had the gumption to tell him (slowly, elegantly, ladylike as Celeste had taught her) that, “No thank you sister, I’m not making that mistake again.”

She left the restaurant and asked Veronica to pick her up. They laughed about the incident over a drink at a bar. Later that night, she cried. It woke up Joey.

“Mommy, is everything alright?” Joey is only a child, but ever since Joey’s father left, the boy is the closest thing to adult conversation available to Anne in the house.

“Your father is a shit, Joey. “He’s a shit.”

* * *

Joey and Christina are in the back seat of their father’s Prius. They are whispering to each other, and both of them look very nervous.

“What’s going on,” says their father.

“Nothing, Daddy.”

He knows even from their response, from the frightened sound in their voices, that something is disturbing them, terribly.

“Don’t try to be coy with me,” he says. They don’t understand the expression.

“What does that mean, Daddy?” asks Christina.

“It means that I know you two are keeping a secret, and you are not allowed to keep secrets from Mommy and Daddy.”

Joey is nervous, but desperately in need to confess. He can be a difficult child, always in search of giving “payback” to those he imagines have hurt him, but he is fundamentally a sensitive child, too tender for his own good.

“Mommy says that you are the S word,” says Joey. “She also says that you don’t pay for anything.”

“And that’s really stupid!” chimes in Christina, with that squeaky, always excited voice. “You pay for everything. You always pay!”

* * *

I am angered by Anne. She has no right to bad mouth me in front of the kids.

“Why does Mommy say that?” asks Joey. He is so hurt, so disturbed to hear that I’m a shit, that I wish I could die right here and now. “Be kind,” I tell myself. “Anne is a wonderful person, and normally a wonderful mother.”

“Mommy is just angry,” I say. “Sometimes people say things they don’t mean when they are angry.

Joey and Christina are trying to comprehend this. I wish I could get inside their heads and give them adult thought, adult comprehension, bypass all the fantinformation and delusional believes that children favor.

“You mean like when I want payback?” asks Joey.

I’m surprised and frightened by Joey's’ observation. He has no right to be so understanding; he’s supposed to be a child, unknowing, incapable of understanding.

“Exactly, Joey,” I say. “Mommy is just angry. She does not mean what she said.”

That night, after I had fed and bathed the kids, after we played three rounds of Old Maid, after I read to them from the Brothers Grimm Stories that I love so much, after I was sure they were profoundly asleep, I telephoned Anne.

“If you have any issues with me,” I told her, “speak to me directly. Don’t use the children as an intermediary.”

She hanged up on me.

* * *

“Rats!,” said Anne, as she slammed the phone on her ex-husband. “He’s right, but he has no right to be right.”

She went to her bookshelf, the one where she keeps all her cookbooks, and looked up a recipe for Pasta Puttanesca. Cooking always soothes her.

Ingredients:

Extra Virgin Olive oil – 4 abundant tablespoons.

One finely minced onion. [I’ll use three instead, edits Anne.]

One tablespoon of carefully crushed garlic, no peel.

One 30 oz can of plump, chunky tomatoes. [Anne will use fresh tomatoes instead.]

One half cup of rich, strong, red wine. [One full glass for me, thinks Anne.]

Always use drinking quality wine, not cooking wine. [Touché.]

Six anchovy fillets, firmly ground to a paste, then vigorously blended with salt and a small amount of sugar (to mellow the flavor).

Two cups of thick, ripe, sliced black olives.

Chopped Italian parsley, dried basil, oregano, capers, red chili flakes, sea salt, freshly ground black pepper -- all to taste. [Anne is an ardent believer in the pinch of this and a dash of that style of cooking.]

Two cups, Parmesan-Reggiano cheese, aromatic, grated extra fine. [Anne will use Argentine cheese, if she can find it.]

One pound of pasta shells, al dente, never over cooked.

The kids love Pasta Puttanesca, and so does her ex-husband. It means, “Prostitute Pasta.” She’ll invite him to dinner.

Anne sets a large cast iron skillet over medium-high heat, pours in the olive oil, and brings it to just below smoking.

In the end, she decided to stop going on dates set up by her friends. “I’m busy that night,” or “I’m not sure I’ll have time this week, or this month, or this year,” became her standard answers for dealing with invitations. Her friends from college and colleagues from work got the message (loud and clear), and stopped trying to set her up with a man. “Besides,” said Anne to Veronica, her constant confidante. “I have the kids to take care of, and that’s more than enough companionship.”

Anne adds the onions, and stirs methodically, rhythmically. She lowers the heat to medium, and allows the onions to cook until softened, about three or four minutes. She will know when they are ready, by their sweet smell. Onions make some people cry, but not Anne. She’s never affected by it. “That’s because you are too strong,” said her ex-husband.

At night, after the children have gone to bed, after she has finished checking emails on her blackberry, after she has done the dishes, done the laundry and packed the kids’ lunches for tomorrow, she feels lonely.

Ann adds the garlic. The pungent smell fills the kitchen. She cooks it very briefly, always careful not to let the garlic burn. She pours in the tomatoes and wine and stirs well. She takes a sip of the wine for herself. She ads the anchovy filets, basil, and oregano. She lowers the heat to medium-low, partially covers the skillet with a lid, and lets the sauce simmer for twenty minutes. She sips her wine while the sauce is cooking.

“Not what I had envisioned my life to be,” she thinks. “But buckle up. Cheers old girl.” She drinks wine.

Tomorrow she will reheat the sauce, and stir in the olives, capers, chili flakes, salt, pepper, one and one-half cups of the cheese, and three teaspoons of the parsley. She will place the cooked spaghetti on a platter or plate, ladle on the sauce, and sprinkle the remaining cheese and chopped parsley over the top, and she will serve it to her family, including her ex-husband, the shit head..

* * *

Two months ago, Celeste was visiting Anne for a fortnight. Anne enjoys her mother’s company, and is glad to have her whenever she visits. Celeste was in the kitchen, making waffles for the children.

“I’m a gomer and a wrinkled old woman,” said Celeste to the kids, in jest. “Still, I make a mean waffle.”

Joey was licking his fingers from the waffle he just finished. Christina looked at Celeste, with a quizzical look on her face.

“You are not a gomer!” insisted Christina. “You can’t be a gomer! Gomers are old and frail, and they die. If you die, who’s going to make waffles for us?”

Thanks a lot kid, thought Celeste.

The phone rang and just from the tone of its ring, Celeste knew it was important. Celeste prides herself on her extra sensory perception.

Anne was in her garden, tending to the Plum Tomatoes, the flesh fine and thick, very little pulp. This year she has also planted Costoluto Genovese, which is rigged, fluted, and lobed; she has heard that because of its shape it is difficult to can or preserve, but they should be perfect for fresh eating.

“Anne, the phone is ringing! I think you should answer it. It sounds important!”

Anne was not convinced of Celeste’s so-called ESP, but she knew it was easier to appease the old woman than try to argue the matter. She ran to the phone. She really doesn’t have time for a phone call right now. She needs to round up the kids, get them ready for school and get herself ready for work.

“Hello?”

“I need help,” says the voice on the other side of the phone. “I took 90 sleeping pills and I need help.”

“What did you take?” she asks. She’s afraid that he has done something stupid again.

“I think it's called Ambien,” says the voice, “or something like that. I threw up.”

“You have to stay awake,” says Anne. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, but you have to stay awake.”

Christina recognizes the voice. “Is that Daddy?” she asks. “Yes, its your father,” answers Anne; and then to Celeste, “Get on the phone with him. He’s swallowed sleeping pills. Keep him awake until I can get to his house.”

* * *

Some tomatoes she plants for sheer color, like the Evergreen, which ripens into green toning yellow, and the Giant Belgium, with its very large, dark pink fruit, dense and meaty; the Great White, a vigorous beefsteak, bearing large yellowish white fruit; the Pineapple tomato, with its yellow-red striped fruit and heavy green foliage; the Ponderosa Pink, which is best eaten when it is slightly underripe and its fruit is sweet. Not least, the Cherokee Purple, the sweetest of all tomatoes, with a dirty pinky-purple colored fruit and brownish shoulders, soft brick colored flesh and a vibrant green gel.

* * *

Anne was neither surprised nor angry that the father of her children tried to commit suicide. He had a dark streak in him, since the day she met him, on a dark day, in grimy subway, the way he likes to tell, but not the way she remembers it. She remembers meeting him on a bright and sunny day outdoors, in the wide and open yards of Columbia University. To each his or her own memory, she figures. As to his present suicide attempts, she perceives it as just one more inconvenience she will now need to endure. She knows there are no guarantees that he won’t try to do the same thing again.

“I can’t worry about that,” she tells Veronica, over tea and home grown tomato sandwiches, served on Anne’s botanical portmeirion china. “All I can do is be there when he needs me, and let him now that we all support him.”

“Anne,” said Veronica, savoring the tomatoes, throwing her head back to untangle her golden main. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Caffeine, Clairol Number 15, contact lenses, a push-up bra, and comfortable shoes. That's how I do it,” said Anne. “Any other questions?”

* * *

It is seven in the morning.

Things are finally falling into place this morning. Both kids have been fed breakfast (sort of), lunches are ready to go, everyone has brushed their teeth. Here comes the school bus. “Mission accomplished,” says Anne to herself. It’s the same expression Celeste used every morning when Anne was a child. Except Celeste didn’t work, she was a stay at home mom. Sometimes, that sounds like such a luxury to Anne, being able to stay home and have no duties other than taking care of house and kids. The devil called doubt plagues Anne periodically, momentarily, making her question whether it’s right for her to work when she has two small children at home. Other times, she thinks that if she did stay home she would undertake home schooling, and then she would want to set up more activities for the kids, and of course she would have to pursuit her hobbies, like gardening and farming. Before you knew it, if she stayed home, her schedule would be busier than it is now and the kids would see far less of her.

“Face it Anne,” said Veronica to her, this time enjoying Anne’s mint tea and butter cookies. “You are not the stay at home type, it would drive you crazy!” Anne was not sure what Veronica meant by that, but it didn’t matter; it was all speculations and hypothesis in any event. The reality is that Anne has to work, since the child support is not enough to run a household. Besides, in the silence of her own heart, Anne likes her job; Anne likes her life.

“I’m a good mom,” she says to herself, clearing away the dishes.

* * *

Other tomatoes she loves merely for their names, like the Mortgage Lifter, an absurdly large, furrowed, red beefsteak; the Arkansas Traveler, with its pink fruit; the Burpees Longkeeper, large and orangey-red; Djena Lee's Golden Girl, a deep yellow tomato, intensely flavorful and sweet; the Early Girl, a good all season tomato; and the Fourth of July, although it tends to be a bit flavorless, and yields a small fruit.

* * *

The kids have never met Anne’s father. Anne has not spoken with him in almost twenty five years. Since the day her parents separated, Anne only speaks with her mother, Celeste, and never with her father, Victor. Even though Anne was only 18years old, Celeste (in the desperation of divorce) used her as a confidante, telling her things about her father that a mother should never tell a daughter. Anne learned that Victor, almost since the first day of marriage, cheated on his wife. Celeste put up with it because of the kids; she did not want to divorce Victor while the children (Anne and Agnes) were still young. But once Agnes was in high school, and Anne was barely in college, Celeste decided it was as good a time as any to leave Victor.

“And there’s a few other things you ought to know about your father,” said Celeste to Anne. “For example, did you know that he is nothing but a petty thief, a bumbling criminal? He swindles the government every year, claiming false deductions on his tax return. One year he declared the dog as a dependant, and my household budget as tax-deductible employee wages! He’s a piece of work, let me tell you.”

Celeste drank too much in those days, and said things she now wishes she could take back; but none of it surprised Anne. Even though Celeste believed that it was better to remain married all those years, Anne and Agnes had been fully aware of the discord between their parents. The ferocious fights between Celeste and Victor were unbearable. (For God sakes, thought Anne, does she not know that the whole neighborhood knew the marriage was a sham?) Anne would shut herself up in her room, reading, with ears covered, but she could still hear her parents arguing, hurling insults at each other. Anne sought her refuge in books, read all the classics, allowed literature to become her sanctuary.

Anne never saw a tender moment between Celeste and Victor; she only knew of such things from the books she read. From her own life, she knew that marriages don’t work. “I don’t want to get married,” she said to her now ex-husband when he insisted they take vows. “I don’t want to commit the same mistake my parents made.” But he persisted, assuring her that in fact their marriage would be different precisely because her parents had been so awful. “You’ll know not to do” he explained, and she believed him. He’s very good with words; very convincing. The great conniver.

The fifteen years of marriage to him were not so horrible; to the contrary, the majority of the time they were happy, joyous years. Perhaps it would have been better in the end if the marriage had in fact been a failure; then she would not have minded so much when he chose to destroy their world by telling her he was gay.

Lately, Anne has decided she will call her father. She wants her children to know their grandfather. People, just like life, are complex.

* * *

Not everything about Victor was negative; Anne has some good memories of her father; they are few; they are hard to recollect; but they are precious.

Celeste was the perfect housewife, the queen of her domestic empire. The living room was always impeccable, but no member of the family was ever allowed to use it. The sofas and chairs were covered in plastic, waiting for some guest to come to the house and try out their comfort. “That’s only for company!” Celeste would scream if Anne wanted to sit on the pink couch to read a good book. The same thing with the dinning room, with its expensive furniture and precious china that could be used only when guests arrived. And likewise with the downstairs bathroom and the sun room, and the entrance hall and who knows what else. All rooms were off limits to the family. It was a house of luxury in which no one was allowed to live except Celeste and her eagerly awaited, though rare guests.

Anne and her father felt rejected in their own home; and so both of them, like lost dogs, wandered outside in the garden, where Celeste had no desire to govern. At first Victor would say nothing, but he allowed Anne to observe him as he tended to his plantings. Victor loved to grow tomatoes. Even though they were father and daughter, they barely knew each other. It was as if they had just met for the first time. After a couple of years of Anne simply observing her father toil, seed and plant, learning everything there was about gardening, Victor began to give her small tasks. “Would you like to plant these seeds Anne? They will sprout cherry tomatoes.”

That simple phrase is something Anne remembered always, as if it were engraved on her forehead. To this day whenever she works in her back yard (her farm in the city), she thinks of that day when Victor let her plant her very first seeds. “I love cherry tomatoes,” thinks Anne.

Together, they planted and cared Brandywine, a staking variety. The fruit is large, but soft, prone to minor cracking on the top. However, they considered its flavor to be outstanding, full, both sweet and acid.

Little by little, father and daughter developed a relationship based on gardening and vegetables, and best of all tomatoes. He and Anne developed a lexicon of tomato talk.

* * *

But that same night, or any other night, Anne heard her father yelling at Celeste, perhaps even slapping her around

* * *

It is eight in the morning.

Anne is still fretting about the conference call scheduled at work this morning. It’s a mess, a bloody mess.

She tidies up the kitchen, examines the bowl of tomatoes she has picked this morning. She tastes one of them, juices spilling into her mouth. “Precious,” she says. “Simply precious.”

She locks up the house, enters her car, turns on the ignition and regains her confidence, knowing that as usual she will bring order to the chaos.