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While the rest of the cast and crew caught a connecting flight from JFK to LAX, Patrick hired a car and drove to his parents’ house in New Jersey. He called them en route to let them know he was coming, and an hour later parked outside the four-bedroom he’d bought them in a neighborhood his dad had used to make fun of.
“Patrick!” His mother stood on the porch and watched him walk up the driveway. He gave her a hug, breathing in the smell of her, a combination that hadn’t changed in thirty years: hairspray, cold cream, and a heady cloud of Elizabeth Arden perfume that masked the lingering whiff of cigarette smoke, because as far as Janet Carmichael told anyone, she hadn’t touched those filthy things since the Bush administration.
“I’m making potato salad,” she announced, extricating herself from his arms. Patrick realized he had no idea how long he had been clinging on to her. “Your dad is out in the yard grilling up dinner. Oh, he is so good on that thing. What is it about men and fire, you’re all a bunch of cavemen when it comes down to it.”
Patrick followed her into the kitchen, letting his mother’s words wash over him like a white noise machine as she asked him would he mind setting the table, and telling him about what his various cousins were up to, and wasn’t it just wonderful that Melissa was pregnant again, weren’t babies such a blessing, and no, that wasn’t a hint, but when was Patrick going to make her a grandmother? It all came out like a monologue from some kind of domestic drama, requiring no response or input from Patrick other than the occasional nod and hum. This was the way it had always been. Her chatter was a fortress of defense against awkward silence or, even worse, the possibility of having a real conversation. That was how things went in the Carmichael family. Patrick’s father rarely spoke, his mother spoke enough for both of them, and nobody ever actually said anything.
“Frank,” she called out of the open kitchen door into the yard, “unless you want me to serve those steaks in an ashtray, I think it’s safe to bring them inside now. Come say hi to your son.” She turned back to Patrick. “He is so good on that thing.”
A moment later, Patrick’s father entered holding the heralded steaks on a plate.
“Pat.” He nodded in Patrick’s direction, laying the steaks at the center of the table, in pride of place, surrounded by the potato salad, mac and cheese, greens, and rolls his mother had prepared and that had undoubtedly taken more effort than a few slabs of meat on a barbecue.
“Hey, Dad,” he said in return, hardly expecting any more fanfare than that. It wasn’t like he’d been across the Atlantic working for the last few months. Or that he lived on the other side of the country and only made it home for Christmas or the occasional birthday.
“Eat! Eat!” his mother commanded, and they each took a seat. The kitchen was large, airy, and full of light—a real selling point when Patrick had brought them both to view it after signing his ten-year contract with Wonder Studios—but as they sat slicing and chewing in near silence, he couldn’t help but think longingly of a more cramped kitchen table in Birmingham, where everyone talked over one another so badly it was amazing they had time to eat anything.
“This is all really good, Mom,” he said. “The steak’s great, Dad.”
“Lucky we had enough to go around,” his dad said, not looking up from his plate.
“You gave us no notice!” Patrick’s mother tapped his arm playfully.
“Sorry for just dropping in unannounced,” he said.
He waited for one of them to ask why he was here, but all he heard was the light scraping of knives on plates, and then, eventually, dinner was over. His mother got the men each a fresh beer and made herself a cup of coffee, and then they all went and sat in the living room, a whole new space in which to not talk.
“Did I tell you cousin Melissa is having another baby?” she asked.
“Yes, Mom, you told me.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
“So wonderful. I’ll have to send her a present.”
“Oh, that would be nice!” She sipped her coffee. “So nice.”
“I’m really happy for her,” said Patrick. “Happy she’s happy.” He paused. “I don’t think I’m happy.”
“For Melissa?”
“No, Mom. I mean. I’m not happy. I thought I was, for a long time. I loved my job.”
“We’re all very proud of you,” his mom said, almost automatically.
“I thought that was enough,” he said, “but it’s not. Work. It’s just…work. You know?”
“Hard work isn’t supposed to be fun,” his dad said. “Not that I’d call your job hard.”
“I know, Dad,” said Patrick, skipping right on past the dig. “But it’s my job, and I enjoy doing it, and I guess I’m just realizing you need more to build a life on.”
His mother looked at him expectantly.
Here goes nothing, he thought. “I was seeing someone. His name was Will.”
Patrick’s mother took another sip of coffee, looking mildly disappointed, and Patrick wondered what it was she had wanted to hear. His dad gave no indication he had heard him at all.
“You’d have liked him.” Patrick said. He paused and laughed. “Actually, you’d probably have hated him. But I liked him. God, I liked him so much. He wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met. I don’t think I’d ever even met a drag queen in person before the night I met him.” He felt the air pressure in the room shift, but he couldn’t stop. “He was so funny and weird, and he danced like the world was ending, and he had such a beautiful singing voice.” Patrick’s throat thickened. “I fucked up,” he said. “I ruined it all.”
