For most people the holidays mean family, togetherness, and focusing on the things that matter most in life. For Greg in Straightening Up, a short story by Jeffrey Ricker, it means taking the artwork off the walls, putting away photographs, and sleeping single, because this Christmas his partner Michael's mother is coming to visit. Things would be easier if Michael would finally come out to her, but until he gets the guts to do that, it's up to Greg to do some straightening up. A holiday short story.
Straightening
Up
Untreed Reads Publishing (2012)
“No, it’s
okay, really. There’s plenty of room here. So why isn’t Dad coming…? Oh, well,
if he
has to, he
has to. What’s your flight number?”
Greg peered
over the top of the newspaper. Michael clutched the phone between his ear and
shoulder
while he wrote something on a notepad; all the while, he made a point of
avoiding
eye contact. He
had stopped writing now and was idly drawing circles. Michael rolled his eyes.
“Okay, I’ll
be there. No, I won’t forget... Okay... Me too, Mom. Bye.”
Greg folded
the newspaper and tossed it onto the coffee table. Michael continued to stare
at
the pad,
tapped it with the pen.
“When does
she get here?” Greg asked.
“This
Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?
She could have given us a little notice.”
Michael
looked up, finally. “You agreed you wouldn’t make a big deal about this.”
“I didn’t
think I was going to have to do this every time she comes to visit. Aren’t you
ever
going to
tell her that we’re friends in that special way?”
“Very
funny.”
“It didn’t
kill your dad.” Michael’s father had guessed, actually, and it amazed Greg that
Michael’s
mother hadn’t.
“No, but she
still expects grandchildren—try explaining that one to her.”
“Lovely.”
Greg grabbed his coffee cup and headed to the kitchen.
It was
snowing again. Christmas lights glowed in some of the windows across the alley.
Greg
was staring
at them when Michael came up behind him and put his arms around Greg’s
waist. He rested his
chin on Greg’s shoulder.
“How come
your dad’s not coming with her?” Greg asked.
“He’s got a
meeting in New York on the 27th. He’s spending Christmas
with my Uncle Ed in
Connecticut.”
“And we get
your mom,” Greg muttered, pouring himself another cup.
“I thought
you liked my mother.”
“I do like your mother.” She was sweet, but
not so much that it was embarrassing. She tried
to make Greg
call her “Mom,” though he was only comfortable calling her Mrs. R. “I don’t
like not being
able to lay a hand on her little boy for—how long is she going to be here?”
“Until the
30th.”
“I might
explode.” Greg turned from the counter, crossed his arms, and glared at a point
on
Michael’s
forehead. Michael kissed him.
“I’m not
that easily bribed.”
Michael
shrugged and reached for the zipper of Greg’s jeans.
“Jeez! Don’t
be so crass.” Greg picked up his cup, stepped around Michael, and retreated to
the living
room.
“Do you have
to make this so difficult?” Michael flopped onto the sofa next to Greg, who
was
pretending to be interested in the business section of the Post.
“You know
what would make things easier? If you told her the truth.”
“You mean
like it made things easier with your parents?”
Greg
narrowed his eyes. “That was low.” Greg’s parents had not reacted as well as
he’d
hoped. They
were still talking to him, but he could almost hear them cringe over the phone
whenever he
mentioned Michael’s name. They’d never met him and probably never would; it
was one of
many reasons Greg was glad they lived several hundred miles away.
“I’m sorry.”
Michael took his hand. “Just do this for me, okay?”
Greg kept
his gaze fixed on the Dow Jones Industrial Average for all of three seconds. “You
sleep on the
couch this time. I’ll take the guest bedroom. It’s supposed to be mine,
anyway.”
Michael
kissed him roughly on the side of the head. “Bless you, light of my life. I
promise
I’ll make it
up to you.”
“There just
better be something really good for me under the Christmas tree.”
*
The first
things Michael put away were photographs. Not all of them, just the ones they
were
in
together—the vacation they took camping in Washington (try and explain why there was
only one sleeping
bag clearly visible in the tent), the Halloween party (Michael was Caesar,
Greg
was Mark
Antony—though he’d threatened to go as Cleopatra), and a couple more that
Michael thought
might border on the obscene.
Next was
artwork. Down came Herb Ritts and Keith Haring, up went Ansel Adams—not to
say Greg
didn’t like Ansel, but it was the principle.
The
bookshelves also got a thorough going over. Out went the books by Edmund White,
Armistead
Maupin—even, among others, Howards End by E.M. Forster. Greg pointed out
the only
suggestive thing about the book was its title, and Maurice, which was far more
blatant, was still on the
shelf. Michael took that too.
Gina, Greg’s
best friend from college, called this bizarre ritual “straightening up.” If it
was
possible,
she looked on it with even less humor than Greg.
“I don’t
believe you,” she told Michael over coffee after dinner on Monday. “Your mother
comes in for
a week and suddenly you’re this neurotic house cleaner. Are you going to toss
Greg in a box too
while you’re at it?”
“I get put
in the closet,” Greg said. He thought it was clever, but Michael gripped his
coffee
cup tighter,
and his eyebrows dipped down toward his nose.
“Besides,”
she went on, “how can you possibly think your mother doesn’t know already?
For crying out
loud, it’s not like either of you is all that subtle.”
“Oh, thank
you very much,” Greg said in feigned indignation. Neither Michael nor Gina
seemed to
notice.
“That’s not
fair,” Michael said. “It’s not like I enjoy doing this.”
“I’ll tell
you who it’s not fair to.” She lumped spoonful after spoonful of sugar into her
coffee.
“Greg shouldn’t have to put up with this.”
“Gina—” Greg
began, but Michael cut him off.
“I think
that’s between him and me, actually,” he said. “I’m not forcing him to do
anything.”
That stopped
Greg in mid-gulp. “Excuse me?”
Michael
looked at him with surprise. “I’m not making you do this.”
“Really?
What would you have done if I’d said no?”
Michael
looked baffled, as if that thought hadn’t occurred to him before. For a while,
the
three of
them drank coffee in silence.
*
Michael went
alone to pick up his mother. They arrived home around 8:15 in the evening.
Mrs. R
breezed in, followed by Michael, who wore the expression of someone waiting for
a
grenade to
explode. She shook off the light dusting of snow that clung to the shoulders of
her green wool
coat, and came over to give Greg a hug and a peck on the cheek. Her lips
were frosty; the cold
sharpened the scent of rose in her perfume. She smiled.
“Have you
gotten taller?” she asked. Greg helped her out of her coat.
“I don’t
think so. I’ve been the same height since I was eighteen.”
“Well, if
you’re lucky, everything else will stay the same as when you were eighteen.”
She
set one of
her suitcases on the ottoman in front of the corner chair. Sitting down, she
undid
the latches and
flipped the lid open. “Has my son been behaving himself as a decent
roommate?”
A decent
roommate, and remarkably limber, Greg thought, but resisted the
temptation to
say it. “When
he’s not getting on my case about leaving dirty dishes in the sink.”
She cocked
an eyebrow in Michael’s direction as he came in with three cups of coffee.
“He’s
a fine one
to talk. He used to drink straight from the milk carton when he was a kid.”
“What do you
mean ‘used to’?”
She peered
over her glasses at her son. “I can see I’m going to have to have a word with
him.
Ah, here we
go.” She withdrew several small wrapped parcels from the suitcase. “Time for
presents.”
She tossed
one of the boxes to Greg and one to Michael. Greg’s was a fountain pen with a
black marble
casing and a gold nib.
“That’s
because you probably don’t write to your parents often enough, if you’re anything
like
Michael,” she said. As Greg thanked her, Michael opened his—a green marble
ballpoint
pen.
“That’s
because I know you don’t write often enough,” she said.
Matching
presents, Greg thought. How quaint. Either she knew or he’d been unofficially
adopted.
*
While Mrs. R
helped Michael make up the living room sofa, Greg washed out coffee cups in
the kitchen.
He listened above the running water to their conversation, his ears perking
when she said his
name.
“I hope it’s
not because I’m here,” she said.
“I don’t
think so.” The snap of a sheet punctuated his sentence. “I think he was
counting on
being with
his family this Christmas. He just couldn’t get time off from work.”
“Well,
hopefully we can make it up to him.” There was a pause. “I thought you said
they
were out of
the country.”
“Well, they
are. They offered to buy him a ticket to London as a Christmas present, but he
couldn’t get
off work for long enough to really do it right, you know? So, he decided just
to
stay here.”
What a
save, Greg thought.
Michael was getting far too good at covering up one lie with
another.
“That’s too
bad,” Michael’s mom said. “I’d love to go to London. I still remember the first
time I went.
It was before I met your dad—”
“I know,
Mom,” Michael said, his tone indicating just how many times he’d heard that
story.
“Hey, humor
your old mother,” she said. “You sure you’ll be all right out here? We could
always
switch. Your legs are definitely going to hang over the edge.”
“Mom,” he
said, “I’ll be fine. And you’re not old.”
Greg turned
off the tap and, wiping his hands on a towel, walked into the living room.
“He’s
used to the
sofa. Half the time I come home and he’s asleep on it with the TV still going.”
“Just like
his father.” She sat down and fluffed a pillow. “You’re turning in too?”
“Yeah, I’ve
got to go to work in the morning. Some of us couldn’t get the whole week off
before
Christmas. It’s good to see you, Mrs. R.”
“You too,
dear.” Greg leaned down and she kissed his cheek.
Greg looked
at Michael as he straightened up. Michael’s expression was unreadable; Greg
tried not to
make an accusation out of his own.
“‘Night,”
Greg said, padded off to the guest bedroom and shut the door.
*
For two
hours, Greg alternated between staring at the clock and staring at the ceiling.
The
bed in the
guest room was small and bulged in the middle. It was like balancing on the
back
of a camel. From
the other bedroom, he could hear Michael’s mother breathing. She didn’t
snore exactly—she
was far too nice for that, and the sound she made was far more delicate.
She seemed to
sigh dreamily with each breath that drifted through the half-open door. He got
up and went out to
the living room.
Michael
sounded like someone playing bagpipes with their feet—Greg hadn’t noticed the
snoring the
first week they’d spent together. Neither of them slept much then. When they
finally moved in
together, the first night Greg was jolted awake—it sounded like a
transmission grinding
gears in Michael’s throat. His doctor suggested a different pillow,
which
actually did the trick.
Sprawled
across the sofa, though, Michael slipped back into it easily. It was amazing
the
neighbors
didn’t complain. Greg got a glass of milk and sat on the floor, leaned against
the
sofa, and watched
music videos with the sound turned off.
After a
while Greg noticed the snoring had stopped and then felt Michael’s fingers
crawl
through his
hair. “Can’t sleep?” he asked groggily.
“Not with
you out here sawing down the Redwood National Forest,” Greg replied. He knew
he sounded
testy, but he was tired and figured he was entitled.
“Sorry.”
Michael lowered his voice to a whisper, as if suddenly realizing they were not
alone
in the
apartment. From the bedroom his mother sighed languidly, oblivious. “That bed
really
sucks, huh?”
Greg took a
gulp of milk and passed Michael the glass. “Not as much as this couch.”
He drained
the glass and set it on the coffee table. “Maybe it’s time to get some new
furniture.”
“Time for
something,” Greg said, and closed his eyes. He felt foolish sitting there. He
started
to get up.
“I should try to get to sleep.”
Michael put
his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “What’s your hurry?”
“I have to
go to work tomorrow.”
“That’s
hours from now.” Greg felt Michael’s fingers brush across his chest. When the
ear
nibbling
started, Greg lifted Michael’s arm away and got up.
“Your mom is
in the other room.”
“So?’
“What if she
wakes up?”
Michael
propped himself up on his elbows and stared at Greg. “Why are you being so
uptight?”
“If you
don’t know the answer to that question already, why don’t you sleep on it and
see if
you can
figure it out?” Greg tried to whisper, but it came out more like a hiss. “Good
night.”
Greg crawled
back under the covers and half-hoped Michael would follow him. He was
ready to
forgive him if Michael would make even a small step. The blue-gray flicker of
the TV
from under
the door went out, and a few moments later the buzz saw of Michael’s snoring
began. For the next
hour until he fell asleep, Greg perched on the camel’s back, listening to
Michael snoring on
one side and Mrs. R sighing on the other.
*
Gina met
Greg for lunch the next day. Greg waited for her, a cup of coffee on his left,
a
grilled
veggie on rye at his right, and an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights in front of
him.
She sat
across from him. “Am I in time to save you from yourself?”
“I think I
may be a lost cause,” he said, and started tapping the pack. She snatched it
and
dropped it
into her purse.
“His mom’s
that bad?”
“His mom’s
wonderful. At this point, I’m starting to like her more than I like him.”
“Ouch.” She
slid the pack back to Greg’s side of the table. The waitress brought her
sandwich,
and as she dug in, Greg unwrapped the cigarettes and patted one from the pack.
“You do
realize you can’t smoke indoors anymore, right?” she asked through a mouthful
of
food.
He sneered
at her but put the cigarette away. “Bite me.”
“How
tempting. Tell me, if you’re this bad after the first day, how the hell are you
going to
last a whole
week?”
“I have no
idea, but if you hear about a Christmas Day double homicide, you’ll know I
didn’t.”
“Then I’d
better give you this.” She tossed him a keychain. “If you want to come over and
I’m not
there, just let yourself in. But remember, smoke anywhere except the balcony
and I’ll
be sticking you on top of the tree.”
*
Greg came
home to find Mrs. R. setting the table. She looked up and smiled. “Just in
time.
Dinner’s
almost ready.”
The aroma
from the kitchen smelled warm and hearty. “Thanks, Mrs. R. You didn’t have to
cook.”
She dismissed
the comment with a wave of her hand. “Michael’s done a lot of the work. He’s
learned to
be pretty handy in the kitchen, I see.”
“You have no
idea. So, what’s for dinner?”
“Beef
tenderloin, Michael’s favorite. I’ve also made a salad and asparagus, and I
brought a
peach pie
from home. I won’t tell you how much trouble TSA gave me about that. Hope
you’re hungry.”
“Yeah…. I
guess Michael didn’t tell you I’m a vegetarian?”
She paused
with a fork in hand; her shoulders sagged. “No, he didn’t. I would have made
something
different if he had.”
“It’s okay.”
“The hell it
is.” Greg couldn’t remember if he’d ever heard Michael’s mother cuss before.
“Were you a
vegetarian the last time I was here? I could swear we went out for seafood.”
“Don’t worry
about it, Mrs. R.” Greg kept his head down and looked at the place settings. He
couldn’t
believe he felt like crying over beef tenderloin.
She shook
her head. “I feel like an idiot. Michael took me to the store, for Pete’s sake.
He
could have
said something.”
“Well, maybe
he was looking forward to some meat.”
For a
moment, Mrs. R locked eyes with Greg, then raised an eyebrow, her mouth slowly
curling into
a smirk before her expression hardened again.
“That’s no
excuse.” Michael came in with a stack of cloth napkins and placemats from the
linen
closet, and she turned to glare at him over her glasses. “Michael, why didn’t
you tell me
Greg was a
vegetarian?”
“Huh?”
Michael had a way of feigning ignorance when he couldn’t bluff his way out of
something.
“I guess I forgot.”
“Well,
you’re just going to have to wait for dinner, kiddo,” his mother said. “I’m
going to put
on some
pasta.”
Before
Michael could protest, his mother swept into the kitchen, leaving Michael and
Greg
standing on
opposite ends of the table.
“You can’t
bear to tell her the least thing about me, can you?” Greg asked.
“What does
that mean?”
Greg didn’t
answer. Instead, he turned and walked away from the table, again wishing
Michael
would follow him. To his surprise, Michael appeared in the doorway to the guest
bedroom as
Greg pulled a bag from the top shelf of the closet.
“What are
you doing?” Michael asked, his voice low. He glanced toward the open door.
Greg tossed
the bag onto the bed and began pulling t-shirts and underwear from the dresser.
“What does
it look like, genius?” He didn’t bother to lower his voice.
“She’s only
going to be here until the 30th.”
“Yeah. And
that makes one of us.”
Michael
stepped back a little. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting? It’s only a couple
more
days.”
“What about
next Christmas? And the one after that?”
“Can’t we
deal with this later? Please?”
“Later,” he
said. “When does ‘later’get here, exactly?”
Michael
didn’t answer. He followed Greg into the bathroom, where Greg cleared off his
shelf
in the medicine
cabinet—even after they’d moved in together, they still kept separate tubes
of toothpaste,
shaving cream, razors. When Greg turned around, Michael was blocking the
doorway.
“You’d
better get back to the table and start thinking up another excuse,” Greg said,
and
eased past
him, but not before Michael laid a hand on his forearm.
“Greg,
please.”
Finally,
ages too late, Michael realized he wasn’t bluffing. Greg shook his head and
made for
the front
door.
“Greg?”
Michael’s mother stood in the kitchen doorway, potholders still on her hands.
“Where are
you going at this time of night?”
He
half-sighed, half-groaned. This was almost as bad as walking out on his own
mother. He
leaned over
and kissed her on the cheek.
“Merry
Christmas, Mrs. R.”
“Michael?”
Mrs. R turned toward the dining room. Michael stood in the doorway looking
wounded.
“Mom, don’t
butt in,” he said.
“Hey, you
don’t talk to me like that.” She looked back at Greg. “Did you two have a
fight?”
“It’s not
like that—” her son began.
“Oh, don’t
give me this crap.” She shucked the potholders and pointed one at Michael’s
nose. “Your
mother’s not stupid, you know.”
Michael
paled. “Mom—”
“I have to
go, Mrs. R,” Greg finally said. He was halfway out the door.
“Wait.”
Michael’s mother set her potholders on the hall table and took a scarf from the
coat
tree. She
had to stand on her toes to get it around his neck. When she was done she
placed
her hand on the
side of his face and gave him a look of uncomprehending concern he figured
must be taught in
all the motherhood manuals. Pulling the door shut, he heard her say,
“Michael,
we need to talk.”
*
Gina set an
ashtray and a full glass in front of Greg. He held it up to the light,
wondering
what it
actually was.
“It’s Wild
Turkey, not a science project,” she said. “Drink.”
He tossed it
down and nearly choked on the burn. She patted his back until his spluttering
subsided.
His choking turned to laughter, but once he got some air, he started to cry. He
managed to pull
himself together before Gina could pull him into an embrace.
“Sorry, I’m
OK,” he said, then repeated it, to see if it was true. He reached for his pack
and,
figuring the
ban on smoking had been temporarily rescinded, lit up. “I still can’t believe I
did it.”
“Me
neither.”
He narrowed
his eyes. “Try not to sound so overjoyed. I know you never liked him.”
“I wasn’t
exactly keeping it a secret, was I?” She stroked his back in a lazy circle as
if he
were a
colicky child. Softly, she asked, “Is it for good?”
“I don’t
know,” he said. “Maybe after his mother’s gone he’ll be able to see what I’m
talking
about, but
I’m not going to pretend for his benefit anymore.” Greg looked up and noticed
her
smirk.
“What?”
“I just
can’t imagine you pretending to be straight convincingly. Unless she’s got
really bad
eyesight.”
“Hey, I can
act. I took drama in high school.”
“Every day
of your life is drama class, honey.”
He stubbed
out his cigarette. “You’re really mean, you know that?”
“Years of
practice.” She picked up his glass. “Want another?”
“Please. I
haven’t suffered enough tonight.”
As she got
up, the doorbell rang. She ignored it and cruised into the kitchen.
“I’ll let
you answer that,” she said. “We probably know who’s coming to beg for
forgiveness.”
“He’ll have
to do more than beg this time,” he said.
Even though
he knew Gina would be right, Greg opened the door, stared at Michael in his
snow boots
and overcoat, and thought, I’m not going to cry again.
“Can I come
in?”
Greg stepped
to the side. “What are you doing here? And how did you get here?” They had
only one car
between them, and Greg had taken it. The title was in his name anyway, so he
figured he
was, well, entitled.
“I took a
cab,” Michael said, just as Gina emerged from the kitchen with Greg’s refilled
glass. She
and Michael looked at each other in silence.
“Sorry to
barge in,” Michael said.
Gina
shrugged. Michael glanced at the glass in her hand. She seemed to think about
it a
moment, then
handed it to him before heading back into the kitchen.
Greg was
damned if he’d be the first to talk. They sat on opposite sides of the coffee
table,
Michael
turning his glass slowly in his hands. Gina emerged from the kitchen with
another
glass of Wild
Turkey and the bottle. She placed them on the coffee table without saying a
word and headed to
her bedroom.
The silence
got huge. Greg could have sworn he heard the lights twinkling on Gina’s
Christmas
tree. Just when he thought he’d crack and start babbling, Michael blurted out,
“I’m sorry.”
Greg belted
the rest of his drink. Only a little burn this time. He set the glass down and
refilled it.
“Let me guess. Your dad spilled the beans, didn’t he?”
Michael
managed a laugh and nodded. “She said she was amazed he thought he could keep
a secret from
her. Now that I think about it, she always knew what we were getting her for
her birthday,
Christmas, Mother’s Day. There was no surprising her. She knew everything.”
“Clearly.”
Greg poured himself another measure, considered slugging it back too, but
instead
took a sip.
“So when did your dad tell her?”
“The week
after we moved in together. He caved faster than you can say cohabitation.” He
laughed.
“Actually, she didn’t give him much choice. She just asked him point-blank how
long we’d been
seeing each other. She was worried we were jumping in too soon.”
“What tipped
her off?”
Michael
smirked. “You won’t believe this.”
“What? Come
on.”
“Our towels.
She figured two ‘friends’”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“moving in
together
would have a mishmash of stuff, but ours all matched.”
It wasn’t
that funny, but given the mood he was in, Greg started laughing a little, then
tried to
take a drink
and nearly ended up spewing it over the coffee table. Soon they were both
laughing, more from
relief than anything else. Once they pulled themselves together,
Michael asked,
“Are you going to
come home?”
Greg got up
and walked over to the window. It was dark out. Gina lived in an old building,
and through
the frost on the old, warped panes, the streetlights were fuzzy haloes. He let
his
focus on
them fade and stared out at nothing, and wondered what had changed.
“So, I told
her everything,” Michael said, as if reading Greg’s mind. “Granted, there
wasn’t
much she
didn’t already know after Dad opened his big mouth.” He paused to take a gulp
from his glass—he
didn’t even grimace—and kept going. “And once I was done, I told her
if she didn’t like
it, she could get on a plane tomorrow and go home. And then—”
“And then
you traipsed through the snow to come here,” Greg finished. “Two feet of snow,
in fact. And—”
he glanced out the window again “—getting deeper. A sane person would
have picked up
the phone.”
Michael
smiled. “I figured my argument would be more persuasive in person.”
“And what is your argument, exactly?”
Michael
stood and flapped his arms once, helplessly. “I don’t know. The cabbie wouldn’t
drive into
the neighborhood, so I had to walk five blocks through two feet of snow just to
come and admit
how much I’ve screwed up. Now I’m cold, and I’m wet, and I’m tired,
and I want
you to come home
with me. Please.”
Greg glanced
back at the window, at the frost, the snow, the glowing lights. It was all so
quiet. He
could hear Michael breathing, and the ice in his own glass rattling. “It’s a
real
mess out there. I
don’t think either of us should be going out in it, not this late. Why don’t
we
wait until morning and
see if they’ve cleared the streets by then? Think your mom can
handle a night
alone in the
apartment?”
Michael
sighed—maybe from relief, maybe from resignation or exhaustion, Greg wasn’t
sure.
“I’ll give
her a call.”
While
Michael took his phone into the kitchen, Greg knelt in front of the fireplace
and tossed
in another
log. Michael’s voice was a murmur in the other room. Greg sat on the sofa and
stared into the
flames for a while. He closed his eyes. He didn’t think he’d drifted for that
long when he felt
Michael’s hand on his shoulder.
“Mom thinks
it’s a good idea to stay off the road too.” He sat on the floor and leaned back
against the
sofa. “She’s glad you’re coming home.”
Greg gestured
toward the loveseat. “Why don’t you lie down over there? You’ll be more
comfortable.”
Michael
shook his head, still staring at the fire. “I’m fine here.”
Neither of
them said anything after that. Greg draped one hand over Michael’s shoulder;
Michael
covered it with his own and they watched the fire. Greg wasn’t sure which of
them
nodded off
first; Michael didn’t snore, or if he did, Greg didn’t notice
