Frosting On The Cake 2: Second Helpings Part 11

I manage to raise myself onto my elbows, so I can look at her as she pants for breath after her mouth leaves me. My G.o.d, but I love her. I stretch to stroke her cheek and her eyes flutter open. The desire in them is even brighter than before. Partly because I love her so, but mostly because I want it, I cup the back of her head and draw her to me again. Her moan sends a shiver through my hips. Words finally escape me. "Ray, I didn't know."

I don't know if she hears me. It doesn't matter. I think of Chris, who let me be this to her. I remember the first time I was with Rayann, who let me be this to her. She devotes herself to my pleasure with her tongue, her teeth, then one slender finger is inside me and I go with the new wave of ecstasy, spreading from her hands and mouth and into parts of me that have never ached before.

I am impossibly drained. For the first time in my life I consider dozing off before my partner does.

Rayann murmurs, "Thank you," as I often do when I have exhausted her. I hear the pleasure in her voice.

"I'm not done with you," I tell her, though my eyes are closed. "I'm just savoring how wonderful that was."

"Have a nap," she whispers.

"Tempting, but I want you too much to sleep."

She says something, almost shyly, but it's lost in my hair as she turns her head away.

"What did you say?" My fingers at her chin, I turn her face toward me.

She sends a jolt through my spine with, "Prove it."

Car Pool.

Published: 1992.

Characters: Anthea Rossignole, cost accountant Shay Sumoto, environmental engineer Adrian and Harold, gay male friends.

Setting: Oakland to San Jose, California, and along highways, side streets and bridges in between The Fourth is for Freedom.

Divided Highway.

(18 years).

"It's the next left." Anthea watched Shay's hands on the steering wheel, but today the usually welcome sight was just a blur. Her eyes wouldn't stay focused.

"I'll come in with you." Shay's voice had the same raw edge that Anthea's did, a painful combination of shed and unshed tears.

"That's probably not a good idea. Twice the lesbians isn't going to make this any easier."

"Yeah. I mean, what am I? Just the other mother."

She put her hand on Shay's thigh, knowing the bitterness wasn't directed at her. They'd all like to direct their anger toward something useful instead of doctors and laboratories and tiny type on computer printouts.

Shay navigated the worn Oakland neighborhood street, pausing for children playing and avoiding potholes and the occasionally oddly parked car. Anthea wondered which of these houses was the one where Harold had grown up. They'd pa.s.sed his school a few blocks over, and he'd said there used to be roses along the front-but he hadn't been back since the last disastrous conversation with his mother eight years ago. He'd hoped the prospect of a grandchild where she'd had no hope of one might soften her poisonous h.o.m.ophobia. But she was having none of his evil plan to make a baby with one of his lesbian friends and raise that baby as part of a four-parent household. The child that Anthea had carried to term had never known his father's mother.

Beautiful Henry, with his father's melting eyes and winsome ways, knew Adrian's parents well. They'd been elated to have a surprise grandchild and hadn't expected Adrian to ever be a father. They didn't care in the least that their son's husband was the biological father, and that Henry spent half his life with his biological mother, Anthea, and her wife Shay. Lots of kids had two moms and two dads, after all, though most perhaps not in that combination, and in the Bay Area biracial kids were less and less rare. They all lived within a few miles of each other in the wooded Oakland hills, and Henry never wanted for a parent's or grandparent's attention. He had thrived-until six months ago when unexplained weight loss had led to blood work and finally to this narrow street.

Beautiful Henry-Anthea turned her head so Shay wouldn't see her lower lip quiver. Just when she thought she was all cried out fresh tears would threaten. She knew she cried mostly from tension, but Shay saw the tears as despair. None of them had cried until this week, after Henry's first chemo round and the news that Harold and she, his closest biological ties, had not tested very highly as bone marrow donors. Shay and Adrian's results were-not unsurprisingly-even less promising. The national registry of people willing to donate bone marrow hadn't found a strong match either. Henry was home now with Adrian, finally able to enjoy food, but the next round was tomorrow.

In the meantime, the doctor had told them to find family members to be tested as matches "just in case." The idea that Henry could suffer so much with no benefit from it had left Anthea numb. But she didn't despair, not while there was a chance that Harold's mother and cousins who had similarly cut him off might possibly test as better bone marrow donors than Harold.

"I think this is it. Do you think she'll be home?" Shay drifted to a stop at the curb in front of a neatly maintained bungalow.

Anthea glanced at the dashboard clock. "Harold said she preferred the early shift, so if nothing's changed, she got home from work about an hour ago. Hopefully has had time to eat some lunch." She blinked at the blue sky-the sun was blazing overhead. She supposed it was unseasonably warm for Oakland in June, but none of the heat seemed to penetrate her. "If nothing else I'll camp here until she shows up. What other choice do we have?"

Shay's short laugh had no humor. "I thought I knew all about pride. March, yell, dare the bullies. All the things you're willing to do. All the things you believe you'd never do because you're out and proud. Never ask a favor from a h.o.m.ophobe. Live without them. Never show weakness or deny who you are." Her fingers clenched around Anthea's. "But what does anyone know about pride if they've never had a sick child?"

Anthea didn't dare look at her. They'd both be crying if she did. She held Shay's hand until Shay let go to get a tissue from the box between their seats.

"I sat with my dad, all those months." Shay wiped her nose. "I was helpless and angry, watching him slowly waste to nothing. I hated cigarettes-I knew what was killing him. But...it wasn't like this. Nothing to blame. And what point is pride when it comes to Henry? Whatever that mean old woman wants she can have. Anything. Anything if it'll save Henry."

Anthea had to clear her throat before she could speak. "Would you sleep with Mel Gibson?"

"Oh that's so gross." Shay sniffed.

Anthea patted her hand. Before their viability test results came back, Shay would have laughed at the poor attempt at a joke.

She peered at the bungalow's tidy yard. Roses, a vibrant showing of pink, salmon and cherry red, filled the beds that flanked the front door. She clutched the file folder to her chest. She didn't know what she was going to say. But Shay was right. She'd say anything, promise anything-there was no point to principles and pride. She'd join the Westboro Baptist Church if it would save Henry.

"Here goes nothing."

"Good luck, honey. G.o.ddess and Wicca and rainbow flags and the Force and Xena and all things bright and beautiful-may they be on our side."

"There's just one side," she said. "Henry's."

"I'll be right here."

Heart pounding, certain of a disdainful and angry reception, she resolutely made her way up the short walk to the front door.

She had never met Harold's mother, but seen pictures many times when she and Shay had dined at Harold and Adrian's. Over the years the photographs had no doubt gone out of date, but the woman who answered her ring of the doorbell looked much like the woman on Harold's wall. With the light flowing from behind Anthea, she could see Mrs. Johnson easily through the screen door. Her hair was pure white and close cropped to her dark, regal, beautifully-shaped head-an attractive feature that Harold and Henry had both inherited. Her frame was angular and lean. Her dark face was heavily lined-prayer had not brought her peace, that was for sure.

"Can I help you?"

Anthea was momentarily thrown by the fact that her voice was husky, like Harold's. Reminding herself that Mrs. Johnson had raised a fine man who respected women and life, she said carefully, "I'm Anthea Rossignole, Henry's mother."

After the briefest of pauses, Mrs. Johnson asked, "Why are you here?"

It was that tiny hesitation that gave her a small ray of hope. Mrs. Johnson knew something was amiss, and cared to find out if her son was okay. "Henry needs your help. Only you can give it."

"I was very clear with Harold. I don't approve and I can't have anything to do-"

"Henry has leukemia."

If ever a word stopped a conversation, it was that one. The lines around the older woman's eyes deepened.

Anthea had dealt with a lot of executives who refused to understand the absolute nature of a balance sheet's bottom line. Many of them, when shown that their company would not be able to make the next day's payroll, flinched. They turned their heads, looked at the door and then they retrenched to their position of denial. She saw Mrs. Johnson head begin to shake no, and her shoulders twitched as if she would shut the door and keep the unpleasant news on the outside.

Stepping to one side as if expecting the screen door to be opened for her, Anthea asked, "May I come in, ma'am?"

Whether it was shock or simply good manners was of no matter to Anthea. The screen door opened and she was inside. A few moments later the front door closed behind them and the outside world winked out of existence for her-Anthea could no longer remember if it was sunny or foggy, summer or winter. She did remember the aching, terrifying moment that she had told Shay she loved her. She had thought then that nothing she would ever say could possibly be more important.

"Would you like some coffee?" The offer was perfunctory.

"Only if you have it made, ma'am. Otherwise, a gla.s.s of water would be perfect."

"I do have some made fresh. I was just home from work a while ago."

"That would be wonderful, then. Just black coffee is fine."

She perched on the edge of the indicated stiff-backed chair and raised her voice slightly so it would carry to the kitchen, just visible through the doorway on the other side of the living room. "Harold said you might be home by now."

"Did he send you?"

"No. But he knows I'm here. He thought if he came it would upset you more."

Mrs. Johnson reappeared with a delicate tea cup and saucer. "I won't change my mind. The church is very clear. I love my son but I hate his sin."

Anthea accepted the coffee, pausing to admire the rose and heather china pattern. At least she hoped Mrs. Johnson thought that's what she was doing. There was no place in this room for her anger. Instead, she recalled their stalwart, dearly departed Mrs. Giordano, whose staunch Catholic faith had given her the strength to face down her priest several times about the church's stance on h.o.m.os.e.xuality. "They're G.o.d's children, same as you and me," she had recounted telling him more than once. "And maybe a bit more, because he picked them for a harder journey right from the start."

"I'm not here to talk about sin. I'm here to talk about a child." Anthea sipped the coffee, tasted nothing, but smiled anyway. "It's delicious. Thank you."

She set the tea cup in its saucer on the delicate side table, then opened the file folder on her lap. "Your grandson Henry is sick. We're trying to find a match strong enough to be a reliable donor-"

"If I understood my son correctly, he was reliable enough, when you wanted him to be."

She was so nonplussed by Mrs. Johnson's direct reference to the way Henry had been conceived that she blinked. She hadn't expected Harold's mother to go there. "He was because we all wanted one thing." She held up an 8-by-10 of Henry.

Any hope she had that the picture would be enough was dashed by the arched eyebrow. "He's a lovely boy, just like his father. But as I told Harold, my conscience will not allow me to be drawn into a family situation of which I so completely disapprove."

She nearly made the mistake of taking the casual way the words were delivered as a sign of detachment. It was the tiny tremor of Mrs. Johnson's tea cup that slowed her response. Every word she said mattered, and she realized she was talking to a very angry woman.

"We would welcome you into our family, and Henry would love to have another grandparent, but that's not why I'm here. None of us match as bone marrow donors, not well enough. It would be very risky, desperate to try. But you could be a better match. Harold also thought you might know how he could contact his cousins. One of them may also be a good match. Henry is undergoing chemotherapy now." She swallowed hard.

Holding up the photo again, she added, "He's lost about twenty pounds since this was taken. We think the chemotherapy will work. But if it doesn't we need to have marrow donors lined up. We will need to act quickly. He's a child, barely eight, and so things don't always go as planned."

"No." She shook her head. "I'm sorry you've wasted your time, but no. My conscience won't let me. It's not easy, it's never easy, but G.o.d gave me faith strong enough to conquer temptations of the heart."

Anthea reminded herself that the reason Harold didn't know his father was because Mrs. Johnson didn't know the name of the man who had a.s.saulted her. Her marriage, when Harold was still a toddler, had been short-lived. She had not had an easy life, but, Anthea also reminded herself, that was no excuse for taking it out on a child. "Harold is a good father. He is loving and kind, but firm."

"Patronizing me won't work, Miss Rossig..."

"Rossignole. It's French for nightingale." She sipped the coffee again, as if they were just two ladies sharing polite conversation. "Your son is a fine man."

"A real man marries a woman."

She had to set the cup down or it was going to snap in her hand. "He takes responsibility for his life, for his own actions. He left the refinery, and works with my wife doing environmental studies. Sumoto and Johnson-they're in demand these days. He cares about the planet. He cares about his son." He's not the man who raped you, Anthea wanted to say. He's a better kind of man, the way you raised him to be.

"This changes nothing. If I was going to change my mind, I would have done it years ago. Do you think I don't want to be a grandmama? But I can't."

"You're missing so much."

The older woman turned her gaze to the simple cross that hung over the small fireplace. "My road isn't easy. Don't think I do this because it's easy."

"I think you do it only because it's hard." She hadn't meant to say that, but the words bubbled out. "Just because love is easy doesn't mean it's wrong. It's supposed to be easy when it comes to children. That's how G.o.d made us. He's only a boy and he's already been through so much. We can lose him altogether-but you have the power to give us hope."

"If there's hope, G.o.d will give it to you. It doesn't come from me."

"Why not through you, from him?"

"That's not his plan."

She couldn't keep her voice from shaking. "It sounds to me like it's not his plan, it's your plan. The chaplin at the hospital and Harold's husband's rabbi, they both told me the same thing. That even though it's hard and I may not understand it, this is G.o.d's plan for Henry."

Mrs. Johnson nodded. "It's not for us to question or understand. He gives us our path and we must walk it."

"So I'm supposed to fight it, struggle against it, but take comfort that if I lose, it's okay, I lost to G.o.d? G.o.d did what was best?"

With a hint of suspicion Mrs. Johnson confirmed, "Of course, child. But I can have no debate with you that I haven't had with myself. The Bible condemns-and before you say it also condemns many other things that are commonplace, like wearing mixed fabrics and working on Sundays, I'm not talking about your Bible. My Bible says the way you live your life is a sin."

So much for the idea that she could fake agreeing with Mrs. Johnson in any way. "What about the Episcopalians and Quakers? The Unitarians and even the Lutherans?"

"Their Bible is fine for them. I live by mine." Her answer bordered on smug. "I was baptized by its guidance, and saved throughout my life by its light. It truly lifts me up from dark places."

If she'd known Mrs. Johnson had already studied up on the debate, she would have done more homework. Leviticus was riddled with inconsistencies and rules that n.o.body followed-including animal sacrifice-so she'd been primed to point out that the Bible's application to life evolved. She had hoped to find at least one piece of common ground.

"It lifts you up, but I am in my darkest place." Anthea cleared her throat. "And it's your Bible, not mine, that will keep me there. And none of this has anything to do with Henry. His sickness may be part of G.o.d's plan, but then so is the reality that you have a choice. Maybe Henry is sick to make you realize what you're choosing-words on a page or the life of a child."

"They're not just words on a page." The smugness was gone, and only an implacable, cold rage was left. For someone who thought she had all the answers, Mrs. Johnson didn't appear to be completely sanguine about G.o.d's plan for her.

"Isn't Harold part of G.o.d's plan? Isn't having a gay son part of G.o.d's plan for you? A plan that brought you a grandson? Whatever sin you may see in Harold, and me, it's not Henry's sin. But I am part of G.o.d's design, Mrs. Johnson. Outside in a car is the woman that I love, and G.o.d designed me to love her."

"G.o.d made you. The devil brought the temptation."

"She isn't a temptation-she is a salvation. For me. Not for you, but for me. And it still has nothing to do with Henry."

Mrs. Johnson rose abruptly, but Anthea didn't follow suit.

"Harold is a fine man, loving and honest. Strong, such a good father. You raised him to be good all the way through."