It was quiet until Corey asked, “Storm game tomorrow night?”
“Cool.”
At Seattle Center they turned up the hill to Aaron Paulsen’s family’s home. The Paulsen’s house was a series of glass and metal planes, cleverly assembled to form cleanly-articulated, overhanging rooms with sweeping views. From the front door Corey looked south, toward downtown. Cream-colored clouds and flat skyscrapers were etched in a hard, blue sky. A sunset played streaky pink off the vast reaches of glass. The islands to the southwest were fir-green mounds floating in the dark waters of the Sound. The snow-capped Cascades circled behind the city to rest against Mount Rainier, glistening pink in the sunset. Corey turned away from the view. Backlit by the cream and pink striated northern sky, the Paulsen’s dream house was a little chilly.
“What’d you bring?” Billy asked.
“Sweet and sour pork.” She raised her eyebrows, a question. “From Chungee’s.”
He put his arm around her. “It’s okay, mom.” At the door, she leaned against her boy. They had the same lithe, athletic bodies, though he was half a head taller; the same black hair, though hers was cut short, and his was tied back in a pony tail. She wore form-fitting jeans and a sweater. His jeans were older. He had a tear in his left back pocket and a hole at his right knee. Billy’s T-shirt was from a rock concert at the Gorge. Some group she didn’t know.
She glanced up at her teenage son fidgeting on the doorstep, his arm draped around her. Along with Abe, he was the person she liked best in the world. Billy’s arm dropped to his side as the door opened.
Inside, modern art mixed it up with French Provincial furniture. The potluck offerings were spread across a vast pine table. She saw lots of pasta and vegetable casseroles. Corey finally set her Chinese take out alongside a fancy platter of spinach lasagna.
Billy found a friend and disappeared into the basement. Corey looked around for someone she knew. After more than a year with these people, she still felt like she had to work to keep from making a mistake. Near the window one of the soccer moms, Susan Hodges, a single mother who had a big job at Amazon, was talking with Aaron’s dad, Toby Paulsen, the dean at Olympic and their host at the potluck. Another mom she didn’t know was listening in.
“Hey, Corey,” Toby called as she came over.
He wore a brown corduroy sport coat and old grey Dockers. Shoulder length brown hair framed a thin face. Toby was serious, the descendant of Danish school teachers. The one time she’d seen him angry, Corey remembered him as stern, rather than fierce—more kindly reverend than Viking. Toby shook her hand. “Nice,” he said, noticing the tattoo on her wrist.
“This?” She raised her wrist, showing off a bracelet braided with red, turquoise and black strands. “I was seventeen.”
“Ahead of your time.”
Hardly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Corey said, wanting to talk about other things.
“You’re not,” Toby assured her, then looking at the two women he had been talking with, “I’d like to hear how Corey feels about this.”
“About what?”
“We’re considering a presentation on bisexuality.” Toby adjusted his bifocals, attentive. “Maybe a bisexual support group.”
“A what?”
“A group at school to read and discuss issues. Bisexuality is a viable option for the young people in this community,” he explained.
It is? She hesitated. “You sure you want my opinion?”
Susan nodded.
“Of course,” Toby added.
“I was in prison. In that community, there was a bisexual action group. I put a fork through a woman’s cheek to stay out of it.”
“Uh…I’m sorry,” Susan said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. Listen. These kids have enough trouble with regular, old-fashioned—”
“Regular?” Toby frowned.
“Uh…gimme a break here, Toby.”
The other mom excused herself and went to the buffet.
Toby hesitated, made a steeple with his fingers. “Corey, how well do you understand homophobia?”
“C’mon, I don’t care who these kids have sex with—so long as they come to it fairly—”
“Fairly, yes—”
“Because they want to, not because they think it’s a viable option.”
“Isn’t that Abe?” Susan interrupted, pointing out the window.
Corey’s husband was getting out of a burgundy-colored ’99 Oldsmobile with freshly-painted white trim. Abe was looking at the sky, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard, trying to figure something. The car was driven by an elderly Chinese.
“Who’s driving?” Toby asked.
“Abe doesn’t drive,” she explained. “That’s Sam, his driver.”
“Why doesn’t he drive?”
“He sideswipes parked cars. Abe’s often pre-occupied.” As if to make her point, Sam took Abe’s arm, steering him around a puddle.
“I see,” Toby said.
She changed the subject. “Where’s Aaron?”
“He’s staying with his grandmother while his mom’s in New York.”
“Billy’s been trying to find him.”
Toby wrote the number on a napkin.
“Thanks.” Corey took the napkin, then saw Abe. “’Scuse-me.”
Abe was near the metal front door. She waved, caught his eye. He was getting an earful from several parents. His half smile—Abe was drifting—made her feel better. Corey saw him take out his pipe, a sure-fire crowd disperser. She hurried over.
Abe’s bearing changed. He put his pipe in his jacket pocket, straightened up, then wrapped his arm around his wife’s slender waist.
Corey leaned against him, relaxing a little.
Stay cool in your mind, Teaser was thinking. He was working the grill at the Mex drive-thru. Sweating. His eyes were watering and burning from the smoke. He had to keep this job. It was part of the plan. So he had to pay attention to his boss, Raoul, who thought cooking freeze-dried greaser food for minimum wage was some kind of an honor.
While he grilled chicken and vegetables for the fajitas, he was getting ready. Going over the list in his head. Taking his time about it. He had four things left to do today. And everything had to be perfect—just
