Page 22 of The Lipstick Flip

The barn was dark. They’d never run electricity out there, because my grandpa didn’t think you needed it, and my dad didn’t do that kind of thing—didn’t take care of things. Was gone too much. Gone a lot, at the beginning, when I was still too little to understand where he was or why they came and took him away. And we lived far enough out that we didn’t have many houses around us, didn’t have streetlights except one a quarter-mile away. So, the barn was extra dark. And if the door closed, you couldn’t open it from the inside. Ralph said it was haunted, but he was little, and he believed in that stuff.

Dad lunging up from the sofa. Mom banging the wooden spoon against the wall like she was playing a drum. Screaming. It seemed like everybody in that house was screaming. Fingers white around the doorjamb. You were holding on so tight because you were so scared.

Talk like a fucking man.

Walk like a fucking man.

Act like a fucking man.

Be a fucking man.

You know what happens to fags?

You’re going to end up on your knees in an alley, sucking some guy off so you can get your next fix.

Well, a part of me that doesn’t sound like me observes, he wasn’t wrong about that.

Rick stood. He was one of those guys who looked too thin, but from exercise—he was wiry with it, and he had shaggy blond hair that was steadily going from gold to silver. “I was visiting my kids for Thanksgiving. I’d been in the bathroom at the airport. I was thinking about doing one more line, and then I wasn’t thinking about it anymore, I just did it. I wanted to do it off the toilet paper holder, but I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get the angle right, so I did it off the toilet seat. And I kept thinking, ‘You’ve got your face mashed up against somebody’s ass, and you’re about two inches from piss and shit, and you’re about to walk out and smile and pretend everything’s okay. Tell your kids you love them. How good life is treating you. Rock-fucking-bottom, buddy.’ And it was. Until I saw a half-smoked cigarette on the ground on my way out of the airport, and I didn’t have any money left, so I picked it up and smoked it while I waited for my kids.”

All of a sudden, the need to talk grabbed me. It was so strong it almost pulled me out of my seat. My mouth was opening. My ass coming up from the chair. The first cigarette Ralph stole had lipstick on the filter, and after we smoked it, I checked my mouth in the mirror ten times. Twenty. I was sure the lipstick was still there. Sure it would give me away. I didn’t think about the smell of the smoke.

You can spend the night in the barn.

It’s good for him. Toughen him up.

The room tilted. The air was close. Too warm now. Sweat soaked the back of my shirt. Ed was looking at me, eyebrows slanted, and I waved a hand as I got to my feet and moved away from the circle.

Following the trampled line in the carpet like it was a magic path. Ralph played games like that. This is a magic forest. This is a magic castle. A line of scraggly pines maybe twenty feet long, with honeysuckle growing up around the edges.

Why are you wearing those fucking flowers in your hair?

I left the clubhouse, and the night met me like an indrawn breath, like something sucking me out into the cold. Quiet. Still. The stretch of parking lot, and the security lights like little stars.

Shivering, I paced a little, back and forth in front of the small office building. That didn’t help so I wrapped my arms around myself. My breath bloomed in front of me. It was good that the night was so quiet, and the only sound was my boots scuffing the asphalt, because inside my head it was red and bright and loud.

The buzz in my pocket jolted me out of—of whatever it was. Like being asleep, I guess. Like sleepwalking. My eyes watered with the cold. It was sharp in my nose. But it was like being awake again, looking around the empty lot, seeing it for the first time.

I took out my phone. Noah’s name flashed on the screen.

For a moment, I thought about dismissing the call. But it might be about the house. About a contractor we needed to negotiate with. A scheduling problem. It could be a million things, and none of them could wait.

“I was thinking about the living room,” Noah said as soon as I answered. “What about this: Christmas village?”

I waited, and when he didn’t say anything else, I asked, “What about it?”

“What do you think about that idea?”

“What idea?”

Noah made an exasperated sound. “What if the theme for the living room is ‘Christmas village’? Wouldn’t that be cute?”

I wasn’t sure why hearing his voice was grounding. Why it felt like I could just listen to him like this and feel all of that chaos drain out of me. Because he was familiar, maybe. Because this was all old hat, and I knew how to do it.

“No themes,” I said.

“Well, that’s ridiculous. Of course we’re doing themes.”

“No, we’re not. We’re doing simple. We’re doing easy. We’re doing fast.”