I
HOMEBODY
I can see myself living here
through a hurricane or fire—
even if the building was burning
I think I’d stay.
TONY KUSHNER,A BRIGHT ROOM CALLED DAY
1
2015
SEASON 19, EPISODE 8:
“Your Rent Is Due!”
You caught me.” He sheepishly paused the TV as I emerged from our bathroom.
“You aren’t actually watching what I think you are.”
“Greta said last night’s episode was insane, so I recorded it.”
“She’s a good judge of insanity,” I replied. “Is it delivering?”
“Some bimbo from Texas went ballistic during the vote, screaming at this hairy goon, ‘Your rent is due! Your rent is due!’”
I squinted at the screen, where a shirtless hunk cowered before a blond tornado. Standard fare forEndeavor. “Glad they’re keeping the lights on.”
My husband then tapped his lips with a mischievous grin. “Luke? Your rent is due.”
“Wow, an invoice on April 15th? You’re a monster.” I chuckled. My mom was an accountant, so Tax Day’s eternally emblazoned on my brain.
“But I’m your monster.” He smirked, and I pressed my lips against his.
Thirty minutes later, I’d roused the kids, dressed them, and dispatched breakfast (their Eggo phase admittedly a time saver). My husband wasalready on a call with the Minority Whip, but he still managed one last kiss when I bundled the kids out the door.
As I maneuvered the Escalade down the driveway, I mentally noted that one of the box hedges by the front gate was definitely dying, a blemish on the otherwise immaculate property. We’d been in our five-bedroom white Colonial almost ten years, the design choices no doubt influenced by my mother’s aspirational stacks ofSouthern Livingmagazines, though this house would have fit two of the modest brick split-level my parents had owned.
Once the kids were at school, my Wednesday was consumed with the standard errands. Grocery shopping would come later, since Andie had become insistent about selecting her own fruit. I fished Wallace from his gang of four-year-old bruisers at day care by early afternoon, then powered to Andie’s soccer practice in my usual grayscale uniform: hat, sweats, sunglasses. A decade in the District had taught me to dress for a low profile, but when you’re “the happy homemaking husband of America’s only openly gay senator” (Page Six’s words), not to mention 6’4” and 235 pounds, you’re more conspicuous than the average citizen. Unlike most journalists, however, the carpool moms willfully stonewalled me.
At Whole Foods afterward, I indulged Wallace’s fantasy that the shopping cart was a pony while Andie perused the oranges with the discernment of a Manhattan gallerist and recounted her coach’s strategy for the upcoming tournament. “But it only works if the other team are troglodytes,” she concluded, her pronunciation wildly precise for a six-year-old.
“Where did we hear ‘troglodytes’?”
“Baba.”
That point had been brokered early. If he was the biological father, I got to be “Daddy.” My husband was allergic to “Papa,” protesting it sounded contrived by Brooklyn hipsters, but when our baby daughter’sPsounded like aB, he took the malapropism as a sign and “Baba” was born.
A frumpy woman passed us amid the lettuces and did the classicdouble take. No matter how neutrally I dressed, the combo of my black hair, pale blue eyes, and large frame usually betrayed me when people got a long enough look. Plus, the scars.
The lady clumsily snapped pictures, drifting perilously close to jars of tomato sauce. I hated people photographing the kids, but worse to call it out, especially if she was recording video. I discreetly guided us down the aisle rather than allow a full magazine spread.
My sister called as I ushered the kids into the checkout, but before I could answer, I noticed even the cashier’s jaw had inexplicably plunged. She’d seen us here countless times, but now her pained smile trembled, as if attempting condolences at a stranger’s funeral.
