There. Good, huh? Eat up, baby, and then we’ll go play…
I shoved all four of my fingers into the jar and sucked the sticky, thick mess into my mouth. Jammed my whole hand in my face, choking myself, trying to block out the sounds that wanted to escape. They came out around the edges anyway.
“Mommy?”
Not much later, in a different house…The edge of the wooden seat dug into the backs of my thighs. Papa had suggested I should have a cushion to sit on, because I slipped on the polished wood, but Grand-mère said he mustn’t spoil me. The sandwich in front of me wasn’t peanut butter, but thinly sliced ham, lettuce, and mustard. I pulled off the crust and nibbled on it. The sharp bite of the mustard was nothing like peanut butter.
Grand-père spoke forcefully behind the closed study door, in French, not Mommy’s English.“Lori will pass soon, Henri. The doctors say it’s a matter of days. And then her parents’ money will come to you. We must plan how we’ll use it for the vineyard.”Words I didn’t truly understand but which lodged themselves in my brain.Pass. Days. Money.
Mommy was Lori. She was sick and in the hospital, and I hadn’t seen her for lots of days. Did pass mean coming home?
Papa’s voice came through the door heavy and dark, like he was lifting a crushing weight.“I’m keeping the money. I’m going to Paris. To live.”
Where was Paris? I hoped it was nice. I hoped we’d be with Mommy, and not Grand-mère and Grand-père who didn’t like me.
There’d been a lot of shouting and fist-thumping after that, words I didn’t remember, tones I couldn’t forget. Papa had been as harsh and as cold as Grand-père. I’d tried to ignore the argument, tearing my sandwich into smaller and smaller bits. Soon we’d be gone. Soon we’d live in Paris.
Grand-mère’s voice rose shrill above the two men.“You, raising a child? What do you know about children? You’ve barely been home all these years.”
And Grand-père.“Leave the boy with us. You might not respect your heritage but he will—” “Patrimoine”was a word my grandparents had already used to me often.
More shouting. More threats.Money. Neglect. Thibault will stay with us.
I’d tried to push my chair back and go tell them no. Tell them I was going to Paris with Mommy and Papa. My feet didn’t touch the floor, and I couldn’t make the chair move. Finally, I wriggled down off the slippery seat onto the floor under the table. Before I could crawl out, I heard Papa say,“All right. You keep Thibault. Keep your hands off my money and leave me alone. He’s probably better with you.”
The study door slammed back. From under the table, I saw Papa’s legs in the slim, dark slacks he wore go striding past. I called to him, but something strangled my voice and he didn’t hear me. The front door slammed. A car roared off down the drive.
Grand-mère’s legs in fine stockings, wearing dainty shoes as always, appeared in my sight.“Thibault! Where are you? Look at this mess.”And when I didn’t answer,“Thibault!Come here right now.”After a moment, her heels clip-clopped off on the shiny hardwood floor and rounded a corner out of sight. I hugged my knees under the table and rocked myself. Soon I’d be with Mommy and Papa. Soon we’d live in Paris…
“Mommy!” In that dark commercial kitchen, choking on my peanut butter fingers, my cry echoed off the hard surfaces.
She never came home. Three days later, Grand-mère told me my father had moved to Paris. When I asked to go with him, she told me not now, someday, the way a parent lies to an unreasonable child. He still lived there. I’d never gone.
“Fuck you, Grand-mère! Fuck you, Papa!” I threw the jar of peanut butter across the room. It thudded, plastic maybe cracking, maybe not. I imagined a wave of sticky brown across Grand-mère’s clean event kitchen, but probably not much fell out. I couldn’t see. It didn’t matter.
“Fuck you, Grand-père. I gave away the vineyard, the winery, the house. I’m going to give your precious showroom to the scruffiest, mangiest dogs and cats I can find. I’m going to take those precious plant stands and turn them into scratching posts. I’m going to adopt the biggest, hairiest ball of fur love you’ve ever seen and make a bed out of your tapestries for it.”
I hugged my knees tighter, the book pressed against my stomach. “I’m queer and I’m here and you’re dead. I’ll make Manuel put the progress Pride flag on every bottle of Lafontaine wine…” Although I’d missed the moment when I could’ve added that condition. I wouldn’t lay down the law like that to Manuel anyhow. That would be like my grandparents, demanding everyone dance to their tune.
“I’m going to find a man to love and we’ll have all the books and toys and we’ll eat off the floor and never speak French and not care one bit for history—” My throat tightened. “I will. I thought… I thought Shane…”
How did I screw up so badly on something so important? What if he’s hungry? What if he’s alone? Alone hurts…
I pressed my face between my knees, holding my breath until sparkles built behind my eyelids. My chest heaved, asking for air. I fought it, knowing when my next breath came— instinct forced me to suck in, and when I breathed out, a sob ripped from my throat. Another. Another. My gasps shook me and I hung on, curled up tight, safe under the table where the bad things hadn’t happened yet. Except that was a lie, wasn’t it?
Eventually, my tears wound down into shuddering breaths. My nose dripped on my jeans, my eyes stung, my stomach ached.
All that crying hadn’t solved anything, had it?
I uncoiled my body, letting the paperback fall to the floor, and clutched the edge of the counter to haul myself to my feet. The sink was just a few feet away. I stumbled there, leaned over it, and threw up.
Isn’t that just like you, Thibault? Making a bad situation worse.
Ignoring that voice in my head, I turned on the water, rinsing the sink and then splashing coolness on my face. I kept rinsing until the heat in my eyes and cheeks faded. There was no towel, so I used the hem of my shirt to blot myself dry.
Okay, emotional breakdown done. Are we ready to be productive?
I turned to lean my ass against the counter and tried to think.
