Astrid Amara (13 page)

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I was a fool. This was madness, this entire experience. My family did not understand

me. They could not understand me. One of them was a criminal and willing to let me take

the blame. Someone else accused me without any evidence whatsoever. Only my parents and

Ethan seemed willing to believe me, but that was all false promises too, wasn’t it? How long

could their loyalties truly last?

By the time this week was over, would any of them even speak to me again?

“Jonah? Are you out here?” My mother stepped outside and found me.

I stared at her.

She stared at me. And the lit cigarette in my hand.

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“You smoke?” she cried, aghast.

“Yeah!” I shouted, no longer able to contain myself. “Yeah! I smoke! I’ve smoked for

years!”

She gaped at me.

“And guess what? Not only am I a smoker, I’m also gay!”

There was a very frozen pause.

The blood drained from my face.

And then my mother pursed her lips. “You should come inside already. It’s freezing out

here.” She frowned at me once more, and then went back inside.

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I spent most of the following day hiding in my room.

I was a complete and utter fool.

Of all the ways to come out. Of all the scenarios I had rehearsed in my head, the

various solemn discussions, the long introductions, the handing over of PFLAG pamphlets

and research articles on how it wasn’t anyone’s fault -- and this is how I did it? Yelled at my

mother and stomped off into my room like a child?

Ethan remained in high spirits, however. “Your mother’s making lunch,” he told me,

trying to coax me downstairs.

“I’m not in the mood.” I pulled the comforter over my head.

“Drink this.” Ethan handed me a mug.

I ignored him. I could only imagine what sort of conversation was happening

downstairs.

“Come on, drink.” Ethan shoved forward a mug full of clear liquid, with an olive on a

toothpick.

“What is it?” I asked, eyeing the drink suspiciously.

He snorted. “Anyone knows you can’t make a martini with Maneschewitz.”

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I sniffed it and then narrowed my eyes. “Booze?” I took a sip.

Ethan wagged a plastic bottle of Absolut at me with a grin. “For emergencies. Come on,

it’s good for you.”

I choked and coughed on the strength. “God, you’re like some Victorian doctor. Next

you’ll accuse someone of suffering from female hysteria.” I eyed him with newfound

suspicion. “I had no idea you were the kind of man to travel with booze.”

“You never asked if I drank,” he said.

“True.”

“Besides, I don’t drink often,” he added. He looked embarrassed. “I don’t particularly

enjoy flying.”

“Yeah? Well I don’t particularly enjoy coming out to my parents, either, so ten points

for the vodka.” I swallowed the rest of my drink, shivered from the aftertaste, and crawled

under the covers.

Ethan sat on the edge of the bed. “It can’t have been that bad.”

“Worse,” I told him. “Now I don’t know if she’s more appalled at my smoking or my

homosexuality.”

Ethan made a face. “The smoking, obviously.” He shook his head. “It really is a shame

Jonah. Maybe you should --”

“Oh for God’s sake, give it a rest.”

Ethan was silent for a moment. He put his hand on my blanketed lump of a body.

“Sorry.”

I sighed.

“Well,” he said, rubbing around, clearly trying to find an identifiable body part. “The

good news is that it’s out. Granted, it could have been accomplished with a little more grace

and tact, but the worst part is over.”

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“That’s what you think. Go downstairs and tell them I died of too much canned corn or

something. Please?”

Ethan found my hip under the covers and stroked it affectionately. “I’ll tell people

you’re ill. Hopefully they’ll leave you alone.”

“Thanks.” He left me to wallow in sheets that smelled like him, which, in combination

with the heady rush of alcoholic burn down my throat, left me feeling much better.

Around noon my mother knocked on my door and then entered, carrying a tray laden

with a bowl of chicken soup, goldfish crackers, and a cup of coffee.

“Ethan says you’re ill.” She wouldn’t look at me as she placed the tray on my bedside

table. “I knew you were too thin.”

I watched her carefully. “Thank you,” I said. “It smells delicious.”

“Well.” She shrugged. “It’s the best I can do given the circumstances.” She reached out

and touched my forehead. “You have a fever?”

“If I did, we could all huddle around me for warmth.” I said.

“Your father saw a snowplow earlier this morning. It looks like they’re finally clearing

the roads enough for everyone to leave soon.”

“Thank God.”

She sat at the edge of the bed. She bit her lip, looking as though she were either going

to say something terrible or explode into tears.

“I’m sorry, Ma,” I said, my own emotions welling up.

“Well, you should be,” she scolded me. She shook her head. “How long have you been

a smoker?”

I stared at her in silence for a few seconds, making sure I translated what seemed to be

English correctly.

“Uh…since college?”

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She tsked.

“Did you tell Dad?” I asked.

“About your smoking? Are you crazy? He’ll get another hernia!”

“No.” I closed my eyes. “Did you tell him I’m gay?”

“Oh, that.” She frowned. “I mentioned it to him.”

“And?” I stared at her desperately.

She finally shrugged. “He said, ‘What can you do?’”

I laughed, relieved.

She shook her head. “You really don’t look well. Maybe you do have a fever.” She

reached for my forehead again.

Instead I grabbed her hand and held it. “I’m glad you know,” I told her.

“You should have told me a long time ago,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

“To think of all the time I’ve wasted, sending you pictures from JDate!”

I smiled. “I know.”

“Well then.” She touched the top of my head. “Come downstairs when you feel up to

it.”

* * * * *

more.

I took a deep breath, and then gave my parents their gifts.

At first, my mother unwrapped the books I had given her and stared in confusion. I

could tell she was uncertain as to why I would have given her such titles. But then her eyes

widened. My father, to whom I gave my other best seller, caught on faster.

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“Levinson? Are these yours, Jonah?”

I nodded. “These are my best-selling titles. I have a few others that didn’t do as well,

but I’d be happy to give you copies if you’re interested.”

“Interested?” My mother stared at me, a look of shock on her face. “You’ve written a

novel, and you think we wouldn’t be interested?”

I shrugged nervously. “It’s not like they are mainstream titles or anything. I just wanted

--”

“Jonah! I’m so proud of you!” My mother cried, hugging me. “Why on earth didn’t you

tell us? Don’t you know how many people we could have told? They would have bought

your books, and then maybe all of them would be best sellers already!”

“Ma, they’re gay fiction,” I reminded her. “Your friends may find some of the scenes

objectionable.”

“Have you made money on these books?” my father asked.

I nodded. “Enough that I am now a full-time writer.”

My mother shook her head. “I’ve even heard of the author J.D. Levinson, but I never

imagined it would be my own son!”

Ethan gave me a “see?” look that was annoying enough to ignore.

“You see that, Al?” my father beamed. “My son is successful!”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not a thief,” Uncle Al mumbled.

My mother had tears in her eyes as she paged through Situation Critical. Inwardly, I

cringed -- that book had my most explicit anal sex scene, and I felt a little bit like weeping at

the thought of my own mother reading it -- but the look of admiration on her face at the

moment outweighed any preoccupations I had about what she actually thought of my

writing.

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“I always knew you’d be a famous writer one day,” my father said proudly, and I didn’t

have the heart to point out the lie. It didn’t matter in any case. They were proud of me and

my chest swelled, for I was proud to be their son.

* * * * *

fireplace. By the time I made it upstairs for bed, Ethan already lay there, stretched across the

bed, on his belly, staring at the laptop.

“Finally!” he said.

I shut the bedroom door. “Yes, yes, I know. You were right. I should have told them

ages ago.”

“No, not you,” Ethan corrected. “The Internet is back up.” He typed on his laptop. “We

can finally get some answers about this pushke.”

I lay alongside him on the bed. His body was always so hot. I closed my eyes to the

sound of his keyboard clacking. The room glowed eerily by the laptop screen, sepia-toning

my room, making familiar features obscured and mysterious.

“What are you looking for?” I asked sleepily.

“Anything I can find. There has to be something about the box that caught our thief’s

attention.”

“It’s a family heirloom, isn’t that enough?” I reasoned. I closed my eyes and lost my

focus within minutes. He mumbled a few remarks and I listened to the low timbre of his

voice as I curled closer to his heat, kept my eyes clamped. I felt exhausted, like I had climbed

a mountain.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because I awoke sharply as Ethan shook my shoulder.

“Jonah! Wake up!”

“What?” I blinked at Ethan. His eyes were wide.

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“Do you know who Moishe Shagalov is?” Ethan asked, his voice tight and excited.

“Besides being the guy who lived next to my grandfather, no,” I said.

“Moishe Shagalov was the Jewish name for none other than Marc Chagall.” He pushed

his laptop toward me. I read the Web page, and then stared back at him.

“Marc Chagall. The artist.”

Ethan nodded, his smile wide, his eyes glinting.

“The Marc Chagall,” I clarified.

“None other,” he said.

I thought back on the pushke’s design. Well, of course it was a Marc Chagall

illustration. It had a smiling Jewish couple floating through the air over the village of Liozno.

“There is only one person in this house who would know the Jewish name of Marc

Chagall, and the value of a Chagall-painted pushke,” I said, my heart beating loudly.

Ethan nodded. “The art historian.”

“Matthew.” I shot out of bed.

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Ethan jumped out of bed with me. “We need to get everyone up now,” he said, pacing

the room. “We have to expose him.”

I threw a sweater on over my T-shirt. “We could wait until morning,” I suggested.

Ethan stopped pacing. The eerie glow of the computer screen made him appear almost

ghostly. “No! The roads are beginning to clear. He could escape in the morning, before we

have a chance to confront him in front of everyone.”

I frowned. “Why are you so interested in having his guilt portrayed for all to see?”

“He sat back and let you take the blame for the crime.” Ethan touched my shoulder. “I

know he’s your cousin, but not once in six days has he changed his mind and come clean to

spare this family any grief. So let him pay for his decision. Let’s out him for the thief he is.”

“He may have taken it as a spur of the moment decision, and once everyone reacted so

badly, he felt too awful to come out and admit his crime.”

“But --”

“I know how a person can get caught in a lie and not be able to find a way out,” I told

him, smiling ruefully. “I’ll talk with him in private. He can return the pushke to its original

location, and we won’t tell on him. It’ll be our secret. If he isn’t willing to do this, fine, we

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expose him. But if given a chance to come clean, he may just do so. I don’t think Matthew is

a bad guy -- I think he just saw an incredible opportunity and took advantage of it.”

Ethan shook his head. “You’re too forgiving, but fine.” As I made my way to the door,

he followed me.

“Let me speak to him alone,” I told him. “I’m family, after all.”

“That clearly doesn’t matter to him,” Ethan said. He crossed his arms. “If you aren’t

back in five minutes, I’m coming in to get you.”

“Why?” I asked. “You think he’s going to murder me?”

Ethan scowled. “Do you have any idea how much an original Chagall costs? We’re

talking about millions of dollars. And for something as unique as that pushke? It’s enough

money to steal something for -- it may even be enough money to kill someone for.”

I grabbed a candle. “Well then, I’ll be in the study with a candlestick, if it comes down

to it.”

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