Swim Butterfly

Never Measured Up

We meet Mommom Maureen and Poppop Larry for breakfast at a diner over the bridge in Philly. Inhaling the cloying scent of airborne butter, I slide down the long cushy bench seat first so I'm squished between the window and Pete, then Rudy. June sits across from me and next to Maureen, with Larry at the end. Who knows when or if Deenah and her clan will show--no one, but no one tells Deenah what to do. I envy her attitude, but at least I wear what I think are real diamond studs. She can keep her bleached hair and Diamonique necklace. Pete hasn't noticed my diamond earrings. If he ever does, I'll just tell him I got them from Claire's, to match my engagement ring.

I have trouble hearing anyone above the clattering and chattering, clinging cutlery and cacophony of conversation, a din distracting me from everyone and everyone from me, and that's fine. The action at the long white dining counter and the hissing grill entertains me, and my thoughts drift to

The Sopranos

, specifically the episode during which Vito escapes to a small town in New Hampshire and chats up the hunky breakfast cook.

Eventually our server arrives, a fiftyish woman with warm but worn eyes, ready to take orders. Now my memory switches to the young server at the pub in Cape May, and of course, I think about Jimmy. My hand wanders to the butterfly necklace as I'm looking right at our server. She smiles at me and mouths something to me, but I don't hear her.

"Mom!" June slaps the table. "What do you want?"

"Oh, uh, pancakes, please."

"Ma'am, short stack or..."

"Short stack's fine, thank you." I half-smile at June. She rolls her eyes at me, then orders Minnie Mouse chocolate chip pancakes with extra chips, chocolate syrup, whipped cream and a cherry, giving me a thumbs up as Maureen pats her shoulder. I shrug. Hey, it's a special morning, catching up on holiday crap, an extension of Christmas like a lingering cold.

Maureen looks at me. I smile broadly at her, then look away. My right hand shakes, so I place both my hands in my lap, rotating the dragon ring, praying I don't puke at the table. But why would I? I feel like I've behaved normally since my trip to Cape May, and I don't think Pete suspects anything.

Poppop cracks a few jokes, and I laugh louder than I usually would, trying to deflect attention

off

me by actually paying attention. Throughout his mirth, his eyes glance back and forth, all over the place, it seems. Maureen holds an insipidly sweet grandma/granddaughter conversation with June, and Pete reads his phone. I'm relieved that everyone's busy and I don't have to talk. Pete puts away his phone and announces that Deenah texted saying she can't make it, but that she'll catch up with us another day.

"That's too bad," I respond.

Our food arrives, and while we pass the plates down, a man dressed in a red flannel shirt and tan work pants walks by. I notice Pop's flinty eyes watching him, following him, his head turning slightly as the man passes by.

Pop looks angry, but why? What did that man do to him? The guy's just walking through the restaurant, minding his own business... then my blood turns to lead--

Poppop's not angry, he's checking him out.

Poppop catches me watching him before I can look away. Heat rises in my face. My fork nearly slips out of my hand as I blow on the steaming pancakes.

"Pancakes hot?" Poppop barks across the table. I nod. I cut the stack in half, leaving the half closest to Poppop uncut, then slicing my half into small, even bites. Even doused in cheap, fake syrup, the pancakes stick to my tongue and I can barely swallow. I get it now, not in bits and pieces like my simple pancakes, but like a boulder dropped on my head. And I'm supposed to choke down pancakes with fake syrup.

I miss Jimmy. I wish he were here offering me real maple syrup from Vermont or New Hampshire, chuckling and witnessing all this. And then, what would Poppop think of Jimmy?

Ew

. I shake my head slightly as my peripheral vision scintillates like a disco ball, a migraine warning.

As I chew, I ignore Pete chastising Rudy for something stupid. Poppop tells a joke again, only louder than before. He tries to build an image of a clownish drunk and a bartender, but all I can picture is a repressed, angry, frustrated man mortally terrified of homosexuality. I see a man who forced himself to keep up a front, even getting married and fathering children. I see a man, a big man at that, hiding behind a demure and acquiescing wife when all along, I thought Maureen hid behind him. I see a man who loves his children, maybe, yet possibly feels confused and repulsed at the same time. And finally, I see a man, advanced in years, who never had the guts to change and do what was necessary to be happy, and maybe that's why he made everyone else miserable in the process.

I sip ice-cold water to force a wad of pancake down my throat. I wonder if Deenah knows anything? She's obstinate but certainly not stupid. Maureen keeps her head in the sand as far as I can tell, and I doubt Pete would ever guess. Or want to guess. He just thinks his dad doesn't like him because he's never measured up, not man enough... but for what?

***

Pete drives us home. I stare out the window at the steel-colored sky, interrupted rhythmically by the girders of the Walt Whitman bridge. The conversation in the car evaporates into the stratosphere, but I smile a little and interject

uh huh

here and there to prove that I am still present on Earth.

I look down at the bare trees and brown vacant lots scattered throughout Camden beyond the bridge. Winter freezes everything; the ground holds back the grass, the buds on the trees wait. Silence. When spring returns, the warm weather releases everything. Spring used to be my favorite season.

I look in the side-view mirror and see Rudy's face, framed with soft brown curls like his dad's. He catches me looking at him.

How long can you keep a secret?