partner hadn’t got sick. He and Pete had met working lights at some theater in New York, Off Broadway, and Chet liked to talk about plays and who was hot and who was gliding on their past glory. He gave me the scoop on which actors were gay. A couple amazed me.
The only visible difference between Chet and the hetero males on the ranch was Chet tucked in his shirttail.
Hank and Maurey both hassled me for refusing to see Lydia.
“She’s your mother,” Maurey said.
“I’ve heard her deny that, many a time.”
“She was young then. Now, she’ll admit she has a child to almost anyone.”
“She ruined my life.”
“Everybody’s mother ruins their life. That doesn’t mean you can blow her off.”
“Watch me.”
Hank said Lydia wanted to apologize and reconcile our differences.
“Did she say that?”
“Not in words, but I know your mother. She never says what she feels in words.”
“You mean she lies.”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Lydia doesn’t lie, exactly. She expects you to see behind what she says.”
A letter came from Gilia.
Sam Callahan,
You did a rotten thing. It hurt. I don’t know which is worse, screwing Mrs. Prescott or running away. You could have at least given me the satisfaction of telling you to go to hell.
Dad gave me a set of the photographs of you and Katrina. I told him he is as despicable as you are, which is a lot. I haven’t had much luck with men in my life.
Speaking of Katrina, she and Skip are now the lovey-dovey couple of the South. They neck in public. She compares their love to that of Prince Charles and Lady Di. Yesterday, I heard Katrina telling a table full of trust fund widows at the club that you date-raped her. It made me so mad, I walked over and threw the photo of you and her on the table—you know the one where you have a pom-pom on your penis and she has you tied to the wall. I said, “Does that look like date rape?”
Sam, you’re the only person who ever let me act like myself. I wish you hadn’t turned out to be such a dip- shit.
Sincerely,
Gilia
Paper-clipped to the letter was the Greensboro Record “Births and Deaths” column from November 1, 1983. Midway down the births, Gilia had highlighted in yellow Magic Marker:
In the margin, she had drawn a yellow exclamation point followed by a question mark—
I had no contact with Callahan Magic Golf Carts. They didn’t need me. I called my lawyer to set up rent payments for Babs and Lynette and to get started hurling counter injunctions at Wanda.
“I’ll pay ten thousand dollars to make certain she doesn’t get a penny.”
“We can do that,” my lawyer said.
Maurey overheard the conversation. Her comment was “Getting vindictive in our old age, aren’t we?”
“I’m a man of principles.”
“That’s the nice word for it.”
My only other conversation with anyone in North Carolina came after Thanksgiving dinner, when Shannon telephoned.
She asked, “Are you well yet?”
“No.”
“Are you better?”
“I don’t think in qualitative terms.”
“Wanda tried to move in the other day.”
“Good Lord.”
“She brought two guys with tattoos and a pickup truck full of stuff. Gus blocked the door and wouldn’t let them in.”
“How’d Wanda handle it?”
“She cussed worse than I ever heard anyone cuss. She waved a tire iron in Gus’s face and screamed,
“Two guys with tattoos are no match for Gus.”
“I sure am glad I never called Wanda Mama.”
I looked over at Maurey, who was making cowboy cappuccino. She would enjoy this story. “What’d you and Eugene do?”
“I ran around and locked the other doors and windows. Eugene took notes. He wants to write his thesis on my family.”
We chitchatted a few minutes, or Shannon chitchatted while I counted the number of holes in Maurey’s phone mouthpiece—eighteen.
Shannon said, “Gilia and her parents aren’t speaking to each other, so she spends the night here sometimes. We have a lot in common.”
There was a long silence while I searched for a detail to study.
“Gilia Saunders,” she said.
I guess she wanted a comment. I couldn’t even breathe, much less comment.
“She and I are going to New York City over Spring Break. She wants to take me shopping and to art galleries and all that stuff you never would do with me.”
I stared at the turkey remains on the table. Hank had gone to town to be with Lydia, and Pete only ate some dressing and gravy before lying down, but the six of us who remained had pretty much left the carcass in tatters.
I said, “That’s nice of Gilia.”
“We drove down to see Clark Gaines. He’s back home now. He said to say ‘hello.’”
“I have to hang up now.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Thank you.”
Dear Babs and Lynette,
Enclosed you will find two envelopes addressed to Gilia Saunders of 16 Corner Creek Drive in Greensboro. Would each of you mind dropping her a note explaining my relationship to Sam and Sammi and why my name is on the birth certificates instead of the real fathers?
This favor will save me from much groveling.
Yours,
Sam Callahan
