Harris has to love Penny, and Bess. He had to love Rosemary. They are Sinclairs. They are his blood.
But he does not have to love me.
37.
TONIGHT, WE ARE to play Who Am I after supper. Drinks are always at six on the Clairmont porch, with the meal at seven. It’s fine to be as late as six-thirty, but after that, someone will begin to wonder about you. Nibbles are crackers with cream cheese and fish roe, a bowl of dark green olives, some pecans toasted with sugar and rosemary.
My father and Uncle Dean are leaning against the porch railing when I get downstairs, holding drinks in fat, clear glasses loaded with ice. George and Yardley are on the sofa. Both of them have drinks as well.
“Are we getting booze?” I ask Yardley.
“Apparently,” she says. “Apparently if someone with a weenie asks your father if it’s okay to drink alcohol, then the answer is yes.”
Harris laughs. “George is my guest,” he says to Yardley. “No one is driving. And he asked very politely.”
George raises his glass. He’s slicked his beige hair down neatly and wears his seersucker blazer.
“Does that mean I can have one?” I ask.
“I think yes,” says Yardley. “I don’t have a weenie and I got one. Since George did the asking, so politely.”
“Watch your language,” says Uncle Dean.
Harris makes me an old-fashioned, which is what they’re all drinking. It’s a sugar cube dissolved in water, some ice, a splash of aromatic bitters, a glug of Jim Beam, and a sliver of orange peel, twisted so the oil drops into the amber liquid. He gives me instructions for future reference as he makes it, then hands me the glass. “I draw the line at Penny,” he tells me. “Penny, Bess, and Erin are sticking to soft drinks.”
“That’s arbitrary,” says Yardley.
“It’s always arbitrary,” says Harris airily. “Most rules are arbitrary, but we still need them. Otherwise, we’d have anarchy.”
I drink the whole drink in four gulps, even though it tastes like fuel.
Harris Sinclair is my father. And he is not my father.
This is my porch, has always been my porch. My yard, my beach. My island.
And yet only because of my name. Not my blood.
Harris greets Pfeff and Major as they arrive. They eagerly accept cocktails and descend on the nibbles. Erin and Penny come down, wearing each other’s shirts, with wet hair. Penny looks different in a sleeveless black turtleneck.
Harris asks Major if he’s got a girl back home in New York. “I bet you do, right?”
Major looks at his shoes.
“Or maybe a couple?” Harris presses.
“No, actually.”
“Ah, well. You’ll do great at Amherst. Smart women there. They’ll give you and Pfeff a run for your money, I’ll bet.”
George touches Harris’s shoulder. “Mr. Sinclair.”
“Harris. Call me Harris.”
“Major—” He turns and asks his friend, “Can I say this?” And when Major nods, George says, “Major plays for the other team.”
“That I do,” says Major.
A shadow passes over my father’s face, so quickly I don’t think the others catch it, though Penny and I do. We are alert to his slightest displeasure, always. Harris is embarrassed to have mistaken Major, and he’s angry at George for telling him he’s wrong in front of other people. If you must correct Harris Sinclair, you do it privately.
Also, he’s not happy with Major now. My father isn’t comfortable with homosexuality. Neither is my mother. Their catchphrase on the subject is “live and let live,” but they tense up around the topic like it’s dirty. Like it’s something they don’t want us to know even exists.
“Well,” Harris says awkwardly. “Live and let live.”
He begins talking college sports with George.
I make myself a second old-fashioned and let my head spin.
I want to grab Penny and tell her about Buddy Kopelnick, but she is talking to Pfeff, and I mustn’t tell her anyway.
The pressure of my secret is behind my eyes, behind my whole face.
* * *
—
OUR FAMILY OFTEN plays Charades, Celebrities, and Dictionary—but Who Am I is a new game. Tipper, who arrived before supper looking wan and distracted, has now gone into her hostess mode. We have eaten and Luda is clearing.
Tipper guides us into the living room. She has attached thick white cards to safety pins. On each card is written the name of someone famous in royal-blue ink. She pins a card on the back of each individual. We do not know what our own cards read.