“Would you like a glass?” she had asked, pouring one for herself.
Matt had been gobsmacked, as in seriously wondered if he had walked into the wrong home or if some alien entity had taken control of his mother’s body.
Theirs was a respectablefCOC family, teetotalers on both sides of the tree branching back generations. Nora Griffith—the mother he knew—would not even use alcohol in a recipe that called for it, did not care that the alcohol would cook out. It was “the principle of the thing,” she had said on more than one occasion.
Matt hadn’t needed to ask if his father was aware of this sacrilege under his roof. He’d seen how well the bottle was concealed in the cabinet, watched his mother check the clock to make sure she had time before his father got home, noted that she poured the wine into juice glasses. Glasses—plural—because, yeah, if his mom was offering him a drink, Matt could surely use one.
His mom had led him into the living room, motioned for him to sit beside her on the couch.
She had sat with one leg folded under the other, which was almost as scandalous as her drinking wine. Nora Griffith ALWAYS sat with both feet on the floor, knees together—like any Stepford wife would do.
Matt had remained standing, still reeling at the changes in his mom. Angry that the focus was on her drinking instead of his hurt.
“When?” he asked, as in when had she started drinking.
“August,” she had said. “Come. Sit down. Tell me all about your semester. Classes. Soccer. Everything.” Her voice had that fake cheerfulness she used when chatting with other wives after church.
Matt had shaken his head. She could not just pick up the thread of his life as if nothing had happened.
“When in August?” he had asked. His mother was hiding something.
“You haven’t even commented on the tree,” his mom had said, motioning towards the Christmas tree in the corner of the room.
Matt had shrugged. It was the same tree they’d had for years, in the same spot it had occupied since they moved to this house in ’89. The only real question was how much nagging on his mom’s part had it required to overcome his dad’s stubbornness about setting it up. One year the tree hadn’t been set up until Christmas Eve, had remained in place until Valentine’s Day—just to prove who was really the boss. Matthew Griffith, senior, did not like his authority to be challenged.
“When in August?” Matt had repeated his question. Fuck the Christmas tree.
His mom had taken a long sip of wine, stared out the picture window overlooking the patio. “About a week after you went to school,” she finally said. “Please sit down. This feels like an interrogation.”
Matt had wanted to scream that it was an interrogation. What had she expected when she revealed her little secret? Instead, he settled in beside her on the couch. Turned to face her. He still held his juice glass of wine. He still wanted answers.
“I have one glass a day,” his mom had said sheepishly. “I’m not an alcoholic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Matt had been thinking a lot of things, but alcoholism wasn’t one of them. He’d been thinking of the many times throughout his life when the two of them had sat like this, sharing, talking—times when his dad was out of the house, like now.
In many ways, his mom had been his best friend—until she hadn’t. Until that morning when he was thirteen and she’d found his bloody underwear and pieced together the story that he’d been raped—and had rattedhim out to his dad. The morning she blinked passively while his dad raged at him, called him a “faggot,” threatened conversion therapy…
The evening she had stood by while his dad grabbed the baseball bat and dragged Matt to the car to go teach that “faggoty youth minister” a lesson. Same baseball bat now hanging in Matt’s room, dark spots in the wood grain where the youth minister’s blood had soaked in. It—and that fucking plaque—had nothing to do with baseball, everything to do with reminding Matt that he had failed to stand up for himself when it counted the most. Reminded him that he wasn’t a “real” man in his father’s eyes. Held out the faint hope that he might yet make up for it.
Matt had sipped his wine. It tasted sour.
Nora had sighed. “I should have…”
Matt had ached to hear what Nora Griffith thought she should have done. He had a long list.
Instead, she had taken another sip of wine, stared at something beyond the picture window. “You know, when I married your father twenty years ago, I was the age you are now. All I wanted was to be Mrs. Matthew Griffith.”
Matt had scowled. If she was looking for sympathy, he was fresh out. He’d seen her wedding photos. His dad had been an arrogant prick then as well, smirking at the camera like he was doing Nora some big favor. Never mind that, by any objective standard, he had been lucky to win her hand.
Sip.
“Men don’t even think about changing their names. Girls do. I did.”
“Boo Hoo,” Matt had thought. Try being gay and knowing there was nowhere on the planet where you could be someone’s husband. Who cared what last name you used?
Sip.
“What they don’t tell you is that changing your name is the first step towards erasing yourself. You think you’re gaining something, but it’s just an illusion.”
