Dangers of Conjugation

This is post 12 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

“Dad never marches,” put in Stephen. “He says there’s lots of more important things about a person than sexual orientation, and when Classics scholars get a parade, he’ll be right out in front.”
“Singing ‘Superabiiimus,’” Jack finished, singing the verb to the tune of “We Shall Overcome” and conducting with his garlic bread.
“It’s hardly the same thing,” said Robert, with the self-righteousness that always grated on Bennett. “You don’t find Classics professors dismembered in dumpsters because someone was afraid they’d teach young boys to conjugate.”
“No, but we’re denied employment, subjected to repeated questioning about whether our work contributes to society or is somehow parasitic, and looked upon with suspicion if we don’t dumb-down the course material,” Jack said, ticking off the possibilities on his fingers. “And don’t forget Socrates. Mental molestation is less common than physical in our society, and therefore all the more frightening.”
Bennett leaned back in his chair and gave two loud, approving claps, then took up his glass, feeling exposed, as Jack inclined his head to acknowledge the applause.

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Privacy on Parade

This is post 11 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

“So what have you guys been up to?” Robert asked, looking, as he always did, at Gwen.
“I’m glad you asked,” she said, smiling. Bennett felt the beauty of her face in the candlelight pleasantly pulling him away from his pesto. But she continued, “Since you and Ed seem to be hitting it off so nicely, Jack, I wish you’d do me a favor and try to persuade him to march in the Gay Pride Parade this year. Maybe Robert told you, I’m active in PFLAG, and you know we’re--”
Jack cut her off, waving a tortellini-laden fork. “Gwen, Gwen. Ask of me what you will, even unto half my kingdom, but I’m a private person myself, and I have to respect that in others.”
“Hear hear!” Bennett thought, and allowed his gaze to rest briefly in surprised admiration on his son, clarinetist, cook, and chooser of Jack, until Robert noticed and registered his own surprise.

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Too Sexy for Tweed

This is post 10 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

Bennett found that he could not help comparing Jack with his straight son-in-law, Gregory, especially after he found out that Jack was a college professor—teaching Classics at nearby Enders University. It was somehow unnerving to Bennett to see Jack’s face light up as they discussed Horace, and Schubert, and Rembrandt. Damn it, the girl was supposed to marry the father figure. And the gays were supposed to be campy, but it was Gregory—leather-loving, smooth-talking, ever so slightly supercilious yet still coolly p. c.—who gave the impression of a good actor on an off night. Bennett could come to no better resolution of such conundrums than another martini.
Stephen gave the split pea soup in a bread bowl a miss. When he emerged, halfway through the stuffed tortellini in pesto sauce, Jack looked at him expectantly. “Did you make the call?”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Yes. O. k.?”
Jack rolled his eyes back and stage whispered an explanation. “Seventh-grade dance. Serena Mayfield, the only thirteen-year-old girl I have ever seen who is built like a cello, has agreed to allow my son to escort her, provided he does not embarrass her with any of Dad’s ‘gay’ dancing, which, according to Stephen, means feet must be nailed to floor, hip gyration minimal.”
Stephen blushed to the tips of his ears. “Dad,” he said, stabbing his fork at him. “You’re too sexy for your tweed.”
There was a general laugh. “So he’s not an f-word,” Bennett thought, and then allowed his attention to be diverted by the way the pesto flavor complemented the martinis. He drained his glass and sampled the Orvieto wine, which was also very good.

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A Toast

This is post 9 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

Stephen was sent off to do homework. Bennett was just approving the over-stuffed olive in his drink and meditating on a suitable toast for the occasion when Robert bustled in, laying a tray of crackers and imported cheese on the trunk that served as a coffee table. He looked apprehensive, as usual. “Hi Mom,” he said, as they hugged tightly. Then he bent in towards his father for the ritual half-hearted back slap. “Hi Dad. Sorry I couldn’t get away before. You’ve all been introduced? I see you’ve met some of Jack’s best friends—Martini and Rossi.”
Robert and Jack smiled at each other over this old line, and seeing this Bennett felt a sudden sadness. He looked quickly at Gwen to see if she had also been reminded of those moments of connection, but she was looking at the young men, her face happy and proud. He felt a pang of jealousy, but he knew exactly what it would take for him to get that look from her at the moment, and he still couldn’t parade.
He cleared his throat. “A—toast,” he said, rising to his feet and wincing slightly as his kneecap collided with the lock of the trunk table. “To happy couples.”
Robert called back, “I’ll drink to that in here,” as he scurried to the kitchen. Bennett and Jack drank, facing each other. Gwen sipped, watching them hopefully.

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Jack

This is post 8 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

“O. k., o. k.,” said a voice, cutting Stephen off in the middle of his “Enchanté.” An older copy of Stephen emerged into the foyer lights, self-consciously pushing back a boyish thatch of brown hair. “Ça suffit. Parlons anglais maintenant.” Then, to the Bennetts, “You must excuse us, but Saturday is normally French day.” Jack stuck out his hand much in the way Gwen had, Bennett noticed. “Hello Professor, Ms. Bennett. I’m Jack. Like a drink?”
Bennett shook hands, warming to the man in spite of himself. Jack had a way of getting to the point that was refreshing nowadays. Of course, he thought, as they settled on the overstuffed chintz in the living room, he must steel himself for “something fruity,” as his son always put it. As long as it was a natural color and minus umbrella.
But just then Jack turned from the bar, pitcher in hand. “Martinis all right? I’ve made a pitcher-full, and Robert says if he has anything stronger than a wine cooler he won’t answer for the culinary consequences. Stirred, not shaken, of course. Wouldn’t want to bruise the vermouth—what there is of it.” He gave Bennett a conspiratorial grin, and Bennett found himself grinning back.
Gwen, sitting beside him, squeezed his hand, but he declined to give her the satisfaction of facing her “I told you you’d like him” look.

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The "F" Word

This is post 7 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

It certainly was, Bennett thought, and then Stephen opened the door. “Mmm. I thought I smelled pesto!” Gwen said, and Bennett sniffed appreciatively, registering the odor he had been too distracted to notice before.
“Bienvenu chez Robert et Jacques,” Stephen said, bowing them in.
“You must be Stephen. I’m Gwen,” she said, in her direct manner.
The boy took her proffered hand and kissed it. “Enchanté de faire votre connaissance.”
“Professor Bennett,” Bennett said stiffly, extending his hand with some reluctance. Good looking boy, he was thinking, and spoke French with a fine accent. Too bad they had turned him into a f—mustn’t say the “f” word.

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Stephen

This is post 6 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

As they got out of the elevator, Gwen was fiddling with the video camera—another contraption of which Bennett took a dim view—so she did not see the slight, well-groomed figure poking his head out of the apartment. Bennett clutched Gwen’s arm convulsively as the head disappeared back inside.
“Jesus God! Don’t look now, but that’s just a boy in Robert’s
apartment!”
Gwen finished inserting the tape in the camera and looked at him calmly. “Most probably.”
He peered into her grey eyes, his senses reeling. “Gwen, darling,” he said, slowly, to be sure she would get it. “Our son is preparing to publish this sick connection at Trinity Episcopal Church in a month, and you flick on the Camcorder?”
The lines in her face crinkled into a smile as she patted his clutching arm. “Ed, Ed—don’t you ever listen? I told you a couple of weeks ago that Jack had a son. His name’s Stephen, and he’s twelve years old. Robert’s actually quite excited about becoming a step-father.”
Relieved though he was, Bennett shuddered at that image, so Gwen added quickly, “Part time, of course. Stephen’s mother usually has him, but tonight’s a special occasion.”

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On the Way to Robert's

This is post 5 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

“How was your meeting?” he asked apprehensively as he maneuvered their old Mercedes through rush-hour traffic.
“Very exciting,” Gwen said, not looking at him. “We’re planning for the parade, you know.”
“Oh?” Bennett groaned inwardly. Last year his son had been playing jazz on a float, wearing the see-through thing, of course. Made the evening news.
“I think we’ll be toward the rear,” Gwen said brightly. “Just behind the Transgendered Brigade, but ahead of the AIDS Quilt, of course.”
“Ah,” Bennett said, changing lanes expertly.
“You could lose yourself in the crowd, you know,” she ventured, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
He concentrated on traffic. “Correct me if I am wrong,” Bennett said, “but I recall that last year you were engulfed by a gang of leather-clad Harpy motorcyclists, whom you assisted in holding an inconspicuous lavender parachute inscribed ‘Her-ley Davidson.’ I--”
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, Ed,” she said, turning to face him. “That was only because I sprained my ankle, and for your information the young woman who so kindly let me ride with her turned out to have met Chloe at a literary conference.”
Bennett made a strangled noise to stifle his “What is the profession coming to?” tirade and patted Gwen’s leg. “I’ll think about it,” he said, which was true, if recurrent nightmares counted as thought.

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Bennett Indignant

This is post 4 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

She caught him halfway up the stairs (and already puffing, he noticed, with irritation). Surrounded by the fawning Wagnerian canines, she fixed him with her look of resigned exasperation. “Ed, aren’t you dressed? We’ll be late, and you know Robert prepares the food so carefully. Let’s not spoil tonight for him.”
“Oh, by no means,” Bennett said, trying not to sound sardonic. Mustn’t be inconsiderate. Mustn’t ask why eons of faculty meetings endured, eternities of inane student babble constructively criticized, reams of rejections and damning-with-faint-praise reviews—mustn’t ask why his career, in short, should be recompensed in its twilight with a vegetarian dinner (a contradiction in terms if there ever was one). Mustn’t wonder how all the reading aloud, the exhausting foreign travel, the expensive lessons (including four years at Oberlin Conservatory) had induced the distasteful abnormality of his son. Must be tolerant—no, that wasn’t enough anymore. Must BGLAD (Bi-Gay-Lesbian Awareness Day). Even GLAAD (Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation)! Must wave the PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays). Must relish their subliterate acronyms along with their under seasoned black bean soup, for Christ’s sake.
He was puffing again at the top of the stairs—with indignation, he hoped.

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Children and Horace

This is post 3 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.

Then again, it could have been worse, he thought, warily circling the problem. There were the children of his friends. True, Grout had raised three successful college graduates, but one was a born again Christian whose dinner monologues made you hope each supper would be the last; one was a marketer for a video game player that, according to Gwen, would be the downfall of civilization; and one was a chiseling corporate lawyer. Then there was poor Wilson, so happy to have found a good group home for that slow child of his, Rodgers, whose daughter was manic-depressive, and Lance, whose son had overdosed on LSD and now taught transcendental meditation.
Bennett’s eyes rested fondly on the silver-framed photograph, only slightly faded, of his little girl at ten, which had occupied a prominent position on the little table beside him for some fifteen years. Yes, all in all he was lucky. Off duty his son might wear see-through blouses to show off his nipple ring, but most people in his and Gwen’s circle only saw the young man performing in his tux in Brainard Hall with the Symphony. As for Chloe, aside from an addiction to self-help manuals, she was everything a father could wish—beautiful, scholarly, happily married, and a producer of grandchildren—well, one, anyway, so far, a lively four-year-old girl.
Bennett sighed, brushed aside his misgivings about her husband and the amount of time the child spent on the computer, and reached for his Loeb Classical Library edition of Horace, the voice of reason, the solace of premature old age—and whose old age did not come prematurely?
“To me loyal Fate has given a small domain,” he was reading, altering the translation as he saw fit, when he heard the jangle of keys and the answering stirrings of Siegfried and Fafnir, the two German Shepherds Gwen doted on. More quickly he continued, “but she has vouchsafed the fine breath of a Grecian song--” that part was all right—“and a scorn for the vulgar crowd”—surely “vulgar” was more what Horace meant there. The click of the dogs’ claws as they reached the hardwood floor of the entryway arrested his reflections, and he hastily put down his friend.

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Bennett Beset

This is post 2 of Section I. To see Post 1, go here.

He drummed his fingers against one another. Even here in his sanctum he was beset with dangers. There on his desk was his new computer, no doubt even now secretly begging its manufacturer to restore it to the corporate bosom. Next to it was the telephone, always fraught with menace. If he were to use it he would no doubt discover either that he had utterly forgotten some familiar number—his daughter’s, for instance—or that the old comrade he wished to reach had moved to an assisted living or some more permanent arrangement with the great Activities Director of us all.
Also on the desk, though there was scarcely room, was his Metropolitan Museum of Art desk calendar (the Pontius Palm Pilate his daughter had given him was dropped discreetly into the lower right hand drawer). Engagements already made held more certain peril. “Dinner tonight,” Gwen had written in her precise hand. “Robert’s.” It was not just any dinner, either. Tonight they were to be presented to Robert’s fiancé, the love of his life, the fruit of his strenuous labors at the Twinkletoes Athletic Club. Bennett supposed he must select an unstained tie for the occasion.

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I

Professor Emeritus Edward Bennett found that he had inadvertently taken one of those short naps that herald the onset of old age. He was startled awake by his wife’s cell phone, the one with the “Ride of the Valkyries” ring. After a time it fell mercifully silent. Bennett sat with his fingertips pressed together in the darkening study, musing on Gwen’s renaissance. In late middle age she had become the hare, while he calcified sleepily in his library.
He checked his watch, an ancient Timex. She would be wrapping up her PFLAG meeting in Endersburg right about now. His lips tightened as he shut down the involuntary thought of his son that always rose up in him, the looming destination of every PFLAG train of thought. Who would have thought that a little instruction on the clarinet would have started his boy down the pansy-strewn garden path? “Nobody,” he told himself, shaking his head. “There was no way you could have known.”

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Dedication

This work is dedicated to Dr. Weirsdo, Ms. Mall Diva, and Toyplayer.

Title

Family Values