Me: This strange brown thing that’s been here as long as some of the city’s historic buildings. This ancient thing that still looks and feels seventeen.
The ice cream disappears. Archie says it’s time for him to get to his date for the evening.
“Do you know this one’s name?” Lily teases him. Gently. Lovingly.
Archie climbs atop a newspaper rack. Orates like he’s onstage. “What’s in a name?” My eyes focus on the headline of the paper in the vending machine.Three Boys Dead. Hunt for Arsonist Continues.Archie’s joy stands in contrast to the bleak news. “That which we call a rosebud by any other name would taste just as sweet.”
“You are filthy!” Lily says this with love too.
“Filthy and fabulous.” Archie leaps off the stand. Kisses Lily gently on the lips. Pats my head awkwardly.
Lily asks where I’ll be sleeping that night when he’s gone. I say nothing. She puts her arms around me like I’m the stray cat that I am. “You’ll sleep on the couch.” She raises a finger. A warning. “But just for one night. After that, you’re out.”
Back at her place, she fixes the couch up for me. Uses long swaths of soft fabric for sheets. Wraps a pillow in yellow silk. “I’ll have you know this is not just any couch. It once belonged to Francis Bacon.”
“Did it really?” I touch the couch softly. Like it’s in a museum.
“Well, that’s what the queen who sold it to Lady Cordelia said, and it’s what we’ve chosen to believe. And if we believe it, then it’s true.” Her eyes turn to me curiously. “What about Francis?”
“Oh, I think he’s a fantastic artist. Don’t you?”
“I meant as your name. I’ve always thought it was a beautiful name. Very soft. Poetic. Like Saint Francis of Assisi, who stood up for the poor.”
“I don’t know.... It feels too much to live up to. I’m not noble or glorious or anything like that. I’m just a wild thing that somehow survives—”
“Bramble!” She blurts the word out decisively. A burst of inspiration.
“What?”
“Well, why not?” She pulls a fluffy blanket from a closet. Throws it onto the couch. She’s completed the task of creating a bed for me. “A bramble is wild and prickly, with sharp thorns that could either hurt you or stun you with their beauty.”
“That does sound like me.” I look at her. “And I like that it feels related to your name. Lily is a flower. Bramble is a vine. We’re both plants of summer.”
“Hmm.” She nods. I wonder if she likes this connection between our names. Or perhaps regrets it. “I’ll say good night now. In the morning, you’ll need to start telling me what your plans are for making money and finding a place of your own. There’s gay squats up and down Brixton now. You can start there. I don’t want you sleeping on the street.”
“Yes, Mommy.” I say the word sarcastically.
“I’m being serious. Gay boys like you are disappearing off the streets. No one knows why. No one cares why.”
“You do.”
She nods. “Yes, I do.” She approaches me menacingly. “And next time you call me Mommie, you will add the wordDearest, you hear. Mommie Dearest.”
“Um... Okay...” I feel like I’ve let her down somehow.
She cackles. Tousles my hair. “It’s from the book, kid.Mommie Dearest. Written by Joan Crawford’s daughter. Oh, it’s both a nightmare and a dream of a book. You’ll read it before bed.” She goes to her bookshelf, which is haphazardly stacked. Everything from James Baldwin to Oscar Wilde, Maya Angelou to—of course—Audre Lorde. The genius who first brought us together. She pullsMommie Dearestout. Throws it to me. I catch it. Notice she’s underlined passages. Written notes in the margins like a student.
“Follow me.” She leads me to the bathroom, where she hands me an extra toothbrush. Points to the tube of toothpaste. “Now I know I’m a mess, but I do have my pet peeves. You will push the toothpaste from the bottom of the tube. You will put the toilet seat back down at all times, and you will not piss on it. I do not like to sit on piss, is that understood?”
“Yes, Mommie Dearest.”
“Now let’s get ready for bed, Bram.” She calls me Bram naturally. The nickname sticks. “Mommie’s tired and has a full day of work tomorrow.” She takes the bathroom first. I start the book as she showers. She sings as she engages in her elaborate nighttime ritual of creams. Toners. Powders. A song I don’t know.I’ve got no time to live this lie. No time to play your silly games.The smell of lilac and lavender wafts out of the bathroom. Fills the space with femininity.
I skim through the book. The first sentence is just one word. Capitalized. DEAD. A dramatic way to start. I skip the sectionsthat cover things I already know about Joan Crawford. I go straight to the shocking allegations of child abuse. Think back to my father. The chillingly casual way he used violence to control me. I close my eyes. Remember it so clearly.
I will decide what your world is, he said before he struck me with the back of his hand. As if his words didn’t sting enough.
I realize something in this moment. Perhaps the reason I failed at romantic love with Oliver is because I was never properly taught how to love. Lily switches to singing a new song. This one I know. Donna Summer’s “Could It Be Magic.” I have a chance to be loved by her the way I should have been as a kid. I’ll be a new person if that happens. A secure person. The kind of person Oliver deserves. Capable of loving and being loved.
