MEETING AURORA’S PARENTS They started seeing each other. Aurora had brown, lioness hair. A body with enough curves to fill a geometry textbook. On her back was a mural tattoo. Vivid images of pandas, lotus flowers, and butterflies. It was a cool mural, but Kenneth couldn’t help but think it would be more appropriate on the wall of a Chinese take-out restaurant. One day, she dragged him to a SoHo art gallery. As they were leaving the exhibition—a mind-numbingly dull retrospective of some obscure dead Taiwanese’s stencils—she said, “I want you to meet Mike and Evelyn.” “Your parents?” “Otherwise known as the couple who brought me into this messed-up world.” Kenneth didn’t respond. “You think it’s too soon?” she asked. “Are you having doubts about us?” He was. Other than the tantric sex, what really did they have in common? He worked for a bank. She was a Chakra healer. He liked to spend his free time golfing. She liked to meditate in a closet for hours. He tended to vote for moderate Republicans. She often talked about assassinating them. But he wasn’t ready to give up the sex. “No, I’m not having doubts.” She threw her arms around him as if he’d just asked for her hand in marriage. “Oh, they’re going to love you. You’re like the first guy I ever dated with a job, and wait until I tell them you don’t have a drug problem or a criminal record.” His stomach tightened like a pit bull’s jaw. He was as clear as a Windexed window and, though love had blinded Aurora, her parents would see right through him. No streaks, dust, or smudges, nothing to blur his corrupted soul, and they would know just by looking at him that he wasn’t all that into their lovely daughter. Also from the little that she told him about them he just didn’t see how they would ever relate to him. In the late sixties, they had briefly lived in a commune and had prayed nightly to a harvest moon god named Orkfo. They had conceived Aurora at Woodstock in the middle of a bad acid trip. (Her mother was hallucinating paisley caterpillars and King-Kong-sized dragonflies.) In contrast, Kenneth’s parents were good Presbyterians who had a longstanding country club membership. His father, reared on Philadelphia’s Main Line, played tennis on his own backyard court and swam laps in the country club’s Olympic-sized swimming pool and had never in his life been within twenty yards of a recreational drug. Kenneth’s mother liked to bird watch and invest her wife bonus in oil and gas funds. A week later, Kenneth and Aurora arrived at her parents’ house, a well-maintained, modest colonial home. Mike, her father, was at the front door to greet them, and he was not the aging-hippy that Kenneth had expected. His hair was short, a natural brown, and combed back, revealing a strong hairline. His face was clean-shaven and his body, more football player than peace activist. “You’re late,” he said to them. “Evelyn was getting worried.” He had a toothpick in his hand and he began stabbing his teeth with it. They stepped inside, and Aurora pecked Mike on the cheek. Mike closed the door and Evelyn walked out of the kitchen. She too was a revelation: Mary Tyler Moore hair, a strained smile. Around her neck, a sweater that she was wearing like a cape. “Evelyn Grey,” she announced like a teacher doing roll call. Kenneth and Aurora put down their overnight bags. Mike then led them into the living room. “Kenneth, have a seat,” Mike said and he pointed with his toothpick to a slipcovered sofa. “Would you like a drink? Ginger ale, water, beer?” “A glass of water will be fine,” Kenneth said. “Bumble bee, get your boyfriend a glass of water.” Kenneth positioned himself in front of the sofa, tugged on his Brooks Brothers slacks, and was about to sit, when he stopped himself. “I just remembered . . . We have some more stuff in the car, Mr. Grey.” “Call me, Mike.” Evelyn smiled, showing a set of flawless teeth. “You need a hand?” Mike asked Kenneth. “No,” Kenneth said. “It’s only a few things.” Kenneth walked to the door and went to open it, but it was locked. “Hold on,” Mike said. “The door’s kind of tricky.” “For Pete’s sake!” Evelyn cried. The door had three locks: a barrel bolt, chain lock, and dead bolt. Kenneth stepped out of Mike’s way, and Mike, who smelled of menthol cigarettes, began undoing the locks. Mike then swung open the door. “Thanks,” Kenneth said, and he went to open the screen door. “Let me get that too,” Mike said. “No, I got it.” “Mike, come into the kitchen,” Evelyn pleaded. “The latch sometimes gets stuck.” Mike reached over, and, after wiggling the latch a few times, managed to open the door. Kenneth retrieved the stuff from the car—Aurora’s yoga mat, her book on the deforestation of the Amazon jungle, and a bottle of White Zinfandel—and headed up the walkway. When he got to the front door, he tried opening the screen but couldn’t. Was it stuck? No, it was locked. He rang the doorbell and, a little while later, he heard the barrel bolt sliding back, the chain, and then finally the dead bolt. Mike, chewing on his toothpick, opened the door and then unlocked the screen. “You got everything?” In the foyer, Kenneth leaned the yoga mat against the wall, and Aurora, in rainbow socks, came shuffling out of the kitchen as though she were on cross-country skis. She had a glass of water in her hand and she exchanged it for the deforestation book and White Zinfandel and then, without saying anything, shuffled back into the kitchen. Mike locked the door. Kenneth took a sip of the water and wandered into the living room and sat on the sofa. Eventually, Mike wandered in and stared at him as if he were a squatter. “Did you lock my daughter’s car?” Kenneth put the glass of water down on the coffee table. “No.” “Aurora!” Mike yelled, and she came shuffling back into the living room. “He didn’t lock your car.” Kenneth jumped to his feet. “I didn’t want to insult the neighborhood.” “Kenneth’s right,” Aurora said. “Not trusting your neighbors is such bad karma.” “We should lock it.” Mike said, not at all swayed. He pulled the toothpick out of his mouth, and Kenneth noticed that his left hand was missing the pinky. Mike walked to the door and slid back the barrel bolt, chain, and dead bolt. “This will only take a second, Mr. Grey,” Kenneth said. “I don’t want you going to all the trouble of locking up.” “Put The Club on too, please.” “She doesn’t have one.” That set Mike’s eyes afire. He looked as if he were about to say something, nothing good—I hereby disinherit my only daughter Aurora, perhaps—and so Kenneth, not wanting to hear it, hurried off. The driver’s side door to Aurora’s Volkswagen Rabbit was unlocked, so Kenneth opened it, pushed the lock button down, and shut the door. He looked up at the house. Mike was guarding the front door as if his home might come under siege. The passenger side door too was unlocked, and unlike Kenneth’s 5-Series BMW, which was in the shop being serviced, Aurora’s Rabbit had no power lock switch so, he lumbered around to the passenger side door, opened it, and pushed the button down. He looked up again. The front door was closing. He hurried up the walkway but, by the time he got to the door, it was closed. And locked. Was Mike for real? He rang the doorbell. A few seconds passed, he heard the barrel bolt sliding back, the chain, and then the dead bolt. It was Aurora. “He had to help Evelyn open a jar of tomato sauce.” She unlocked the screen. “My God. I got an earful. Why did you tell him I don’t have The Club? It's at home. Underneath my futon." That evening, at dinner, Kenneth, determined to make a good impression, pulled out a chair for Aurora. At one point during the meal, Evelyn began talking about how she had redecorated the sunroom. “The room’s pinstripe wallpaper is very elegant,” Kenneth said. Evelyn put down her fork. “Why thank you, Kenneth.” Later in the meal, Mike started explaining how, by driving limousines at night, he had raised enough money to open his own stationery store. “That’s an inspiring story, Mike,” Kenneth said. “Sometimes, I wish I had my own business.” When they were done eating, Kenneth said, “The stuffed manicotti was excellent, Mrs. Grey.” After dinner, Kenneth pulled Aurora aside. “Were you guys ever robbed?” “No.” “Does the neighborhood have a high-crime rate?” “Not that I know of.” “Is your father a member of a crime family with a price on his head?” “Would you stop it? He’s just protective of us. His stationery store’s in a bad part of town and was once burglarized. His paranoia has to do with Vietnam. He was a prisoner of war.” For six months, the North Vietnamese held Mike and five others from the 25th Infantry Division captive in a bamboo hut on the outskirts Da Nang. Once, two guards tried to get Mike to spit on a photo of Nixon. Mike hated Nixon and if a bunch of his fellow hippies in the West Village had asked him to do that, he’d have dropped his drawers and pissed on the photo, but not there, not in Da Nang. So, one of the guards, a man with pus-infected eyes, held Mike down, while another guard with flaring nostrils, pulled out a dull knife and sawed off Mike’s pinky. Given Mike and Evelyn’s free-love hippie past, Kenneth never expected them to insist on Aurora and him sleeping in separate rooms but when the ten o’clock news ended, Evelyn shut off the TV and said, “Kenneth, why don’t I show you where you’ll be sleeping tonight.” “You can’t be serious, Evelyn,” Aurora whined. Evelyn’s face reddened. “Not in front of our guest, Aurora.” “Mike.” “Don’t give us grief, bumble bee,” Mike said. “This is so bourgeois.” Evelyn stood ramrod straight. “Follow me, Kenneth.” A wall-sized bookcase was in the guest room, and, after saying good night to Evelyn, Kenneth began scanning the bookcase’s titles, mostly novels, show-business biographies, and social commentaries. Kenneth pulled a book off the shelf--Couples by John Updike—and rolled into bed with it. He started flipping through the novel, enjoying a few vignettes on the sexual revolution. Then there was a knock on the door. It must be Aurora. He put the book down, and the door crept open. Mike peered in, eyes as vigilant as a Secret Serviceman’s, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Excuse me, Kenneth.” A double-hung window was in the room. It was opened halfway. Mike walked over to it, pulled it down, and turned the latch. “All set now, Kenneth. Good night.” And Mike left. Eventually, Kenneth drifted off to sleep, but in the middle of the night, a soft whistle woke him up. What was it? He sat up. It sounded like a tea kettle. He climbed out of bed. The hallway was dark. Was anyone going to take the kettle off the burner? Aurora’s bedroom door was closed, so was her parents’. Perhaps the whistle was the wind through a gap in a door or window. He went back to the guest room and closed his door. He checked his Omega. It was 2:30 a.m., and, with the whistle still sounding, he crawled back into bed. In the morning, Kenneth found Evelyn and Aurora in the kitchen. “I hope Mike didn’t keep you up last night,” Evelyn said to him. She was at the stove, flipping a pancake. “He’s been having trouble sleeping, and those electric trains can be so noisy.” “No. I slept soundly, Mrs. Grey.” “Mike needs to see a sleep specialist, Aurora.” Aurora, who was nursing a cup of green tea, said, “Where is he anyway?” “The stationery store.” “Perfect,” Aurora said. “Kenneth, my horoscope is telling me we need stop by there on the way home.” “That would mean the world to him,” Evelyn said. On the way to the stationery store, Kenneth wondered how his visit had gone. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t made any major missteps. Sure, he’d neglected to lock Aurora’s car, and if he had only kept his mouth shut about The Club . . . But all and all he thought he had done just fine. When it came to girlfriends’ parents, he’d always considered himself an acquired taste, but Aurora’s parents seemed okay with him. “They loved you,” Aurora said, sounding less than thrilled, her eyes on a Hot Tuna CD she’d pulled from the glove compartment. “You sound kind of disappointed.” She shrugged, apathetically. “At the fork in the road bear to your left.” When he’d described his privileged and somewhat Puritanical upbringing to her parents, to his surprise, they nodded, approvingly. And then, as if to dispel any notion that they viewed his staid childhood as emblematic of everything that was wrong with the country, Evelyn said, “It’s so important to come from a stable home.” They also gave no indication, verbal or otherwise, that they thought his intentions regarding their daughter were anything less than pure. Had he fooled them? He might have, and he suddenly felt an elbow of guilt to the ribs. Should he rethink his opinion of Aurora? Perhaps if he slid their relationship under a high-powered microscope, he could discover strains of commonality. And too bad about Mike’s long stay at the Hanoi Hilton’s Da Nang location, but Mike seemed to be dealing with the trauma the only way he knew how. “At the corner make a left, Kenneth,” Aurora commanded. Kenneth slowed the car and then did as he was told. They drove through an underpass, and, at once, the neighborhood started changing. The streets were potholed. A shirtless teenager was rolling an 18-wheeler tire on the sidewalk. Rusted cars on overgrown lots. Broken bottles. “We’re almost there,” Aurora said. They made a right into a shopping center, and, squeezed between an ice cream parlor and supermarket, was a slim storefront with a red awning. “There it is,” she said. “The Paper Weight.” Inside the stationery store, Mike was standing behind a counter, ringing up a cigar sale. When he saw them, his eyes jumped for joy. “Your mother called, bumble bee. She said you might be stopping by.” From behind the counter, Mike pulled out a plastic bag; it was filled with Tootsie Rolls, Good & Plenty, and Life Savers. “A little something for the ride home, Aurora. Take whatever magazines you want too.” A cargo truck was pulling up outside the store. “The greeting card delivery . . .” Mike said and he walked around the counter and put his hand on Kenneth’s shoulder. “Make sure nothing happens to my Aurora.” A week later, after an unusually prolonged session of tantric sex—six hours and twenty minutes, their new all-time record—Kenneth and Aurora were lying in bed, recovering, when she said, “I met someone else, Kenneth.” Kenneth tried summoning an emotion—any emotion—but couldn’t. “Who?” he asked. “You’re hurt, aren’t you?” He didn’t respond. “He’s married . . .” Kenneth rolled over to face her. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this?” “I met him a few months ago.” “At the ashram?” “He’s my soulmate. From a past life.” “So why the hell did you have me meet your parents?” “Lucas doesn’t have a job. He got laid off.” “So you were—” “Mike and Evelyn are always on my case!” “You wanted to show them you could date a guy who wasn’t a complete loser?” “Knock it off.” “You’re fucked up!” “You look relieved!” He had to admit he was. A prisoner of her body, no more. He sprung out of bed, her dirty rolled-up socks beneath his feet like cow chips. “Well, I guess my work here is done.” Kenneth started playing the field where he found no shortage of willing partners. There was Priscilla, the chatterbox hairstylist from Bay Ridge. Dolores, the ambidextrous ambulance attendant, who worked the midnight shift on Fridays. Wendy, the austere yet sexy healthcare executive. He had his fun, but the years started rolling by, and, if he kept up this lifestyle, wouldn’t he end up middle-aged and alone? But then, fed up with the singles scene, he found himself engaged to a woman from Morocco. She sold perfumes at Bloomingdale’s. But a month into their engagement, when she showed him her credit card statements—$10,000 for clothes, furniture, and entertainment (mostly, dining out at five-star restaurants)—Kenneth grew concerned. He liked auditing banks but couldn’t imagine auditing his wife every quarter. He broke up with her. He dated a few other women—a public relations executive, a ballet dancer, a tabloid journalist—and was now seeing an aspiring family-law attorney named Willa, who, to pay for law school, was working as an administrative assistant at the bank Kenneth worked for. One day, when Kenneth was at the bank’s Manhattan headquarters, his supervisor stopped by his office. “Kenneth, we need to talk about that new Long Island branch.” Kenneth looked up from his spreadsheet. “They have a lot of irregularities.” “That’s what I want to talk to you about.” “Mostly with their mortgage disbursements, but there’s a curious trend with check deposits in excess of five thousand dollars.” “Keep a close eye on it, okay? If it’s funny business, someone’s going to get locked up.” Kenneth drove out to the branch. Wasn’t it located in the town where that girl Aurora grew up? As he got closer to his destination, the neighborhood started looking familiar. The underpass. The potholes. The overgrown lots. He pulled into a shopping center’s parking lot. What a coincidence. It was the same center Aurora’s father’s store had been in. The bank was located, where the supermarket used to be, and beside the bank was Mike’s store. How about that. The awning had changed. It was now green. The name of the shop, however, was the same: The Paper Weight. Later that day, on his lunch break, Kenneth walked by the stationery store. It looked a bit different. The checkout counter, for instance, had been moved closer to the entrance. He considered going inside. Mike and Evelyn were cool. It was too bad the baby had to be thrown out with the bath water. But that was life. If he saw Mike, he’d say hello. Ask about Aurora. But an encounter like that might be awkward, so, he decided against going inside. One day, he returned to the bank, and, while getting out of the car, noticed—a few parking spaces away—a brand new SUV. Its license plate read: POW 1971. He walked by the car. The Club was on the steering wheel. That afternoon, as he was leaving the branch to go home, he felt thirsty. Where could he grab a Coke? He looked around the center. A new deli had opened on the other side of the lot. But he was in a hurry. That evening, he and Willa, who was now his fiancée, were going to look at a reception hall for their wedding. He went inside the stationery store. A freckled blond was yawning behind the counter. From a refrigerator, he grabbed a Coke and paid for it at the counter. Should he ask her about Mike? But then a teenage boy, holding crepe-paper streamers, practically pushed him aside. “Miss,” the boy said. “How much are these?” On his way out of the store, Kenneth spotted Mike. He was in an aisle, looking a little lost. His hair was graying. He was much thinner, a small hoop earring in his left ear. The missing pinky. As Kenneth walked by, Mike, who was unloading a shipment of Bic pens, turned to face him. They briefly made eye contact, but, caught off guard and not knowing what to say, Kenneth kept walking. But in Mike’s eyes Kenneth saw a glint of recognition. A few weeks later, Kenneth was in the branch, making his way toward the vault, when he accidently bumped into a man waiting in line for a teller. “I’m sorry,” Kenneth said. It was Mike. “Would you mind paying attention?” “My bad. Are you okay?” Mike was holding a pouch and deposit slip. “Don’t we know each other?” Kenneth asked. Mike’s demeanor softened. “You’re a friend of my daughter.” “Yes. Aurora.” Mike started snapping his fingers. “Kevin . . . ?” “Kenneth.” “That’s right. I’m sorry. Mike.” They shook hands. “So how’s Aurora?” Kenneth asked. “She’s got two boys and a girl . . .” “No way.” Kenneth smiled. “And your wife?” Mike covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. His sports coat opened, revealing a gun in a shoulder holster. "Evelyn's fine. Doing what she does best. Worrying about me. How are you?” “I can’t complain.” “Still in banking I see.” “I work in the city but I come out here from time to time. How’s your business?” Mike suppressed a cough. “A little slow. But it’s picking up now.” “Sir!” It was the teller. “Good seeing you,” Mike said. “Same here. Tell Aurora I said hello.” One day, Kenneth returned to the branch and on his lunch break went to the new deli. At the salad bar, he filled his plate with chicken and rice and walked into the dining area. It was empty, except for Mike and Evelyn. Not knowing what to say to them, Kenneth went to leave, but then they met his gaze. He stopped. What should he do? The dining area was small and it would be odd to sit at another table. But it seemed equally odd to sit with them. Then Mike stood as if he were in his own home. “Kenneth, join us,” he said, extending his hand to the empty chair across from them. Kenneth walked over to them. He shook their hands. “Mike told me he saw you not too long ago,” Evelyn said. “Yep, it’s all true,” Kenneth said, sitting. Mike, who had been eating a thick roast beef sandwich, picked up the sandwich with two hands. He opened his mouth as though he were in a dentist chair and took a bite. Kenneth twisted the cap off his Coke. “So, how’s the chow here?” “The bread’s a little stale,” Mike said, chewing. Evelyn, who was picking at a fruit salad, said, “He shouldn’t be eating that.” “She’s right,” Mike said, “but, hey, you got to go off diet every once in a while.” “But your husband’s in such good shape.” “Looks can be deceiving.” Evelyn said. Mike covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. “I’ve got high cholesterol. Throw in my emphysema . . .” Mike put down his sandwich. “For years, I tried to quit smoking, but couldn’t. I’ve quit now though.” “We’ll see how long that lasts,” Evelyn said. “I never should have started in the first place but, when I was young, everyone smoked. Then I got drafted . . . overseas, it was the only way to relax.” Kenneth picked up a piece of chicken. “So how’s Aurora. Your husband told me she’s got a houseful of kids . . .” “Daniel just turned seven,” Evelyn said. “Chelsea’s four, and Samuel . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it. He’ll be three already.” “Time flies,” Mike said. “And how are you?” Evelyn asked. “Do you have children?” “No, but I’m getting married in a few months.” “Congratulations,” Evelyn said. “That’s great,” Mike added. Kenneth told them about how Willa was in her final year of law school. “Thinking back to when Aurora got married,” Mike said, “relatively speaking, the wedding was on the cheap. It was on a beach, officiated by one of her friends, a minister of some church we’d never heard of, but even so with all the guests it wound up costing a lot.” “It took Mike six months to pay it off,” Evelyn said. “Yeah,” Kenneth said, “etiquette still requires the bride’s father to foot the bill.” “Somethings need to change.” Mike smiled. “Perhaps,” Kenneth said, “but unfortunately in my situation the rule doesn’t apply. Willa’s parents are both deceased.” “Oh, that’s too bad,” Evelyn said. “They didn’t live to see their daughter walk down the aisle.” “They were killed in a car accident when she was in college.” “Terrible,” Mike said. “They were social workers. The way Willa describes them . . . they sounded great. I wish I had a chance to know them.” Kenneth paused. “Is Aurora still into Chakra?” Mike smirked. “More like Little League and playgrounds.” “She still making her own clothes from hemp?” “Not too much anymore,” Evelyn said. “With three kids . . .” Kenneth said. “I can understand.” “She’s going through a tough divorce,” Evelyn added. “Oh,” Kenneth said. “Sorry to hear.” “What can you do?” Mike said. “It’s probably for the best.” “We just hired an investigator to chase down her ex for child support,” Evelyn said. “Dead beat,” Mike added. “We think he’s on some small island off the coast of Venezuela.” Kenneth paused. “Well, she’s lucky to have you two.” On Kenneth’s next few visits to the branch, he only saw Mike once, from a distance, walking to his SUV, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Then one day, when the audit was nearing completion—there’d been no criminality, only gross negligence—Kenneth got an ice cream cone at the parlor next to Mike's store. On a whim, he decided to go into The Paper Weight. The freckled blond was at the register, sorting bills. “Is Mike here?” he asked. “Hasn’t been in weeks.” “Do you know when he’ll be around?” Kenneth licked the cone. “Not sure. Why? Are you a friend?” Kenneth paused. “I work at the bank.” She picked up a roll of quarters and cracked it against the counter like an egg. “Your best chance is to call him at home. What’s your name?” “Kenneth.” “I’ll tell him you stopped by.” Outside, the parking lot was emptying. Kenneth had a vague idea where the Greys’ house was, but it had been years. He tried recalling. He wasn’t entirely sure, but if he had to—and he knew he’d never have to—he could probably find it. He imagined Mike at home, his gun in a secure place, perhaps in a safe beneath the stairs. Mike, walking the rooms: the sunroom, the guest room, the basement where the electric trains ran at night, the dry cough, making sure every window and door was locked, the missing pinky. Evelyn pleading with him to sit still. Kenneth threw his briefcase into the backseat of the car. Tonight, he and Willa would be going over the guest list for their wedding. He got behind the wheel, fumbling for his keys, his thoughts on traffic and time—it was almost six o’clock—and how he’d better get a move on. Bio: Peter Gannon is a writer from Manhattan and holds a B.A. in English Literature from Columbia University. His work has appeared or is set to appear in The Alembic, Slow Trains, 2 Bridges Review, Agave Magazine, Gadfly Online, The Talon Magazine, Amarillo Bay Literary Journal, The Blotter Magazine, and other journals.
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