episode #53

[robling_t]

***

When we arrive at his grandparents' house Jason of course heads straight for the kitchen. Leon's squawk of "-- What has the boy done to his hair?" comes bare seconds later. I'm left amid the hugging and greetings to drift into the lounge, where Philip, also visiting for the week (I suspect there's some question of custody of a house between himself and his all-but-ex-wife involved), comes back out of the open-plan kitchen to show me round a bit as my flatmate launches into a detailed critique of his grandfather's arrangements for supper.

The walls are filled with medals and placards from June's sporting competitions, and photos, young couple courting on the steps of the Forum in Rome, another of June radiant in the kimono now framed above the hearth. "By Mexico City Mum was busy running after us, though," Philip says, with a smile. "But Dad still had to go for work. There's an album somewhere --"

"Don't show him the bobsled pictures," Jason moans from the kitchen.

"Don't embarrass the boy in front of his friend, child," June says. "-- And what is that face, my Leon?"

Her husband gives a too-disinterested shrug. "Nothing, my grandsons turn into wolves, I should care that neither of them ever brings home girls?"

I don't need to glance into the kitchen to know the face that Jason is pulling. "Yeah, still not the gay one, Gamper?"

"Well, how is a man supposed to know anymore? You wore a dress to your prom."

"That was a political statement."

Jason is beginning to look genuinely hurt. June clears her throat. "So you'll be all right with the bunkbeds then," she says in a tone that speaks to how many times she's had this argument with her family.

By Leon's face he's had quite enough of being at sea about this grandson's sexuality and long stretches of conspicuous lack thereof. "I only want to know when are you going to be giving your father some grandchildren? Your sister --"

"Is sorta more motivated about it than I am, Gamper, you know me."

"Motivated? Who needs 'motivation' for that? Your Nanah and I still --"

Horror blooms in Jason's eyes. "Okay, first of all, ew. And second, ew."

June's a bit flustered now, but rallies to her husband: "And where do you think you came from, child?"

"We were immaculately conceived! In a petri dish like God intended!"

Even Martine has cracked a smile over her ever-present mobile. Jason appears to realise that he's letting himself be baited and takes himself into the dining room to begin laying out place-settings with disgruntled little thumps. I venture closer to enquire, curious, "What was the political statement?" But Jason only shrugs, as if five years was so long ago he can't be expected to recall.

Martine reacts to being turfed out of the box-room for the 'chesterfield' with a scowl to suggest that her life to date has been entirely our fault. After she's cleared off Jason starts to remake the lower bunk. "Sorry about Leon making assumptions," he says, fumbling with a pillowcase. "He's been kinda weird at me since the wedding."

I can well imagine what's been going round and round in Leon's mind, face to face with the inexorable march of years. "Well, sort of his job, innit," I observe. Jason nods, mouth turned up in half of a wryly knowing grin.

I can take a top bunk without fear of falling out, and indeed when I wake in the night Jason's wide mattress lies empty below me, door ajar where he's stumbled out past the baby-gate at the top of the stairs to go climb in with his grandparents or Philip. I fumble through the flimsy barrier to slip down to the kitchen for a glass of water, and Martine rouses on the settee with a sleepy-eyed glare for my rustlings through unfamiliar cupboards. "Tu n'habites pas avec ta mère?" I ask.

This gets me an adolescent roll of the eyes, whether for my familiarity or to hear a Metropolitan accent, but she responds, "Elle est en Haiti. Avec Etienne." By the way the man's name appears to taste like a sour pickle in her mouth it's plain she doesn't think much of her mother's new arrangements. But it's the most Martine has said to me directly in any of our encounters, and now she sits up all the way, to ask: "Est-il vrai? That my cousins turn into wolves?" I nod. "And you live with him?"

"Someone has to take him for walks," I say.

Martine's expression screws into a very, very teen-aged look of mortified disdain to have to live amongst hopelessly mental elders. "Creepy."

I almost manage to get back to the bedroom before I dissolve into quiet giggles.