New Jersey, 1994

Antoine Beauchamp lived a relatively normal life. He was American by birth, but Canadian by blood, and his mother loved him. She loved him even more after Antoine's father left when he was still in her belly and it was only the two of them together in the world.

Antoine's mother was "ma" when Antoine was first learning to speak. In a few months she's became "mamman", and later on Antoine learned that her name was Charlotte Antoinette Beauchamp.

Charlotte was a beautiful woman in the eyes of her son. The most beautiful, in fact. Her arms were round and full and comfortable, and her hips were wide and ample. Her breasts were large and she had perfectly aligned teeth. When Antoine was growing up her hair was red and long and it reminded Antoine of the movie version of a little mermaid whose hair flowed in the wind. As Antoine grew older he learned that her hair was actually a very common brown, but he didn't care. She was always beautiful to him, and he loved everything about her. But the thing that Antoine loved the most about his mother were her eyes when she was happy. Her large brown eyes, which she jokingly referred to as roach-colored, were striking and always filled with uttermost patience and kindness.

When Antoine was a kid, it was truly only him and his beloved mother, and sometimes also his Aunt Helene. The world was a perfect, small, and secure place then, and little Antoine wanted for nothing. Soon enough, that bubble that was his safe world popped. It happened soon after Antoine began kindergarten. The first time that the children in school made fun of his mother, Antoine cried. He didn't understand why the other children would do that. The children called Antoine's mother mean names. They called her a "whale" or an "elephant" and amongst the names, Antoine heard it for the first time: fat.

It was then that Antoine started to realize that his mother did not look like other mothers. Although taller than John's and Alejandro’s, his mother was a big woman. Antoine didn't understand why this was a bad thing, and it made him upset that other children teased him about it. One afternoon even, all of his classmates made a circle around him as they waited for parents to pick them up from kindergarten. The children moved around Antoine, chanting, screaming and running around like little wild monkeys.

"Your mom is fat! Fat! Fat!" They chanted meanly, and as the chanting picked up, but before one of the teacher aids came to stop it, a child managed to scream: "You're fat, Antoine! You’re fat too!"

From that day on the children began calling Antoine "fat Antoine" behind his back, but always just loud enough that Antoine could hear it. The behavior lasted for the remainder of the school year. When the new school year began the kids did not bother with the loud whispers, but began to call him “Fat Antoine” directly, as if it was in fact his name. Antoine began to eat his lunched box in the girl’s bathroom. He would take the small red and blue, superhero tin box with him and avoid his tormentors by sneaking into one of the stalls in the girl’s room. There, he would sit on the toilet and open his box. He had a peanut butter and jelly, chocolate milk and a boxed juice as well as a box of raisins and a pack of cookies. He always ate the cookies first. Antoine enjoyed separating them, and then licking the creamy center, scraping at it with his teeth to remove it from their chocolate home. He would then put the ends together and eat them. Eating made him feel good. It filled his stomach, and made him forget the way his classmates spoke to him when they called him fat. Food was also delicious, and tasty, and when the other children began to tease him because Antoine did not have a father, it also helped with that.

Antoine never knew who his father was. His mother did not speak his name out loud. While Antoine was growing up, he came to understand that when his mother said things like "that man" or "Antoine's father", she was referring to someone whose name she did not want to say out loud because it hurt to much to voice it.

His aunt Helene was often the person to bring Antoine’s father up, but like Antoine’s mother, she did not use his name either. Sometimes while Antoine was coloring on the floor or making dolls out of paper, she would say things like: "that man was the worst thing that ever happened to your mother" or "you have that man's eyes, Antoine".

When money was tight, which was more often than Antoine realized in his younger years, aunt Helene would press Antoine’s mother to contact his father.

"Well, what about Antoine's father? Can't he help?" She would say.

“You know he won’t,” Was the usual answer from Charlotte before she sent Antoine away to play in the room to continue a hushed conversation with her sister to which little Antoine could not be a party.

It made Antoine sad to hear this. That man, his father, would hang up the phone when he realized that his mother was the one calling, if she ever got through to him at all. In Antoine’s memories, his father would become the mechanical voice of an answering machine, or the whisper that he could hear over the phone. When Antoine lay in bed at night during one of the many nights in which he wished that his life was different, he would picture himself having a mother, and a father which he had invented in his imagination. In those daydreams, Antoine’s father was simply “dad” and he was very tall. Dad would pick Antoine up in his arms and lift him through the air to help him get books from the highest shelves and toys that were high up in a store. Whenever Dad spoke, his voice was mechanical and low, like the one Antoine could seldom hear over the receiver when his mother was on the phone with him.

When Antoine was six years old and aunt Helene was babysitting him, she told him that they should play a game. Antoine was excited. He had no friends at school and aunt Helene was always fun and energetic. The game consisted of making phone calls, aunt Helene explained.

"Let's see if we can get your daddy to answer the phone!"

The phone was a green rotary dial phone, and Antoine had never really gotten to use it. Sometimes while the phone rested idly in place, Antoine would place his fingers through the transparent plastic in any or several of the holes that revealed a number. He preferred the first one. He then would rotate the whole dial to the other side and let it go, loving the sound that it made when it was released and the whole dial swung back quickly into place. Other times, when his mother was on the phone and urged quickly to come to say hi to his grandmother or an "aunt", Antoine would play with the curly, plastic covered chord that was attached to the head of the phone. He liked that too because like the dial, no matter what Antoine did, it always went back into place.

This time Antoine would get to make an actual phone call. His aunt gave him a piece of ripped newspaper on which she had written large, bubbly numbers in blue ink. Antoine knew his numbers well by then, and although his heart beat rapidly because he might actually speak to his dad, he still managed to take a small moment of his own to enjoy the dead tone on the other side. When Antoine did dial the number, he was proud of himself. He'd done it right, and on the other side there was ringing which indicated that they call was going through.

Antoine's heart was beating fast, so fast in fact that it was a little painful. He was nervous, and excited but above all scared. This was his father he was calling. His father had never met Antoine and this was Antoine's chance to be likable. And maybe, just maybe if Antoine was polite, and gentle and good, then his dad would want to meet him in person. And then maybe, just maybe, just really maybe, the things that he would imagine could be real one day.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Hello?" The female voice on the receiver surprised Antoine.

"Did he answer?" Asked Aunt Helene in a hushed voice.

"Hello?" The tone of the voice changed, and Antoine sensed annoyance.

"H-hi?" Aunt Helene patted Antoine's back and nodded. "M-may I please sp-speak with Ro-Robert Lamb-lambertson?" Antoine wanted to run away and hide under his bed where his secret toys were hidden.

"Who is this?" The voice demanded harshly.

Antoine felt that he was in trouble, and yet this had to be a misunderstanding. And with a firmer voice and a sense of pride in his voice he answered.

"His son.”

Silence.

"Rob has no sons.”

Dead tone.

Antoine spent the rest of the night under the bed. Aunt Helene tried to persuade him to come out with chicken nuggets she had defrosted in the microwave and a few twizzlers she had left from school that day. She had even tried to bribe him with TV and his favorite movie. Nothing worked. Aunt Helene felt terrible. She would get an earful from her sister if Charlotte ever found out, and she wanted to avoid that. After all, she had just been trying to help.

Helene lay on the floor next to the bed. The floor was cold, and past the frill of the skirt of the bed she could see part of her nephew. He was staring up, playing with some sort of paper. She tapped the floor absently as she watched him. She had grown tired of calling his name and bribing him with food and TV, at some point she had even offered to lend him her gameboy, and Antoine had remained under the bed the entire time. Helene nuzzled the cold floor with her cheek and watched the damage she had caused.

“Antoine?” She began gently. “What are you playing with?”

He did not answer.

“Won’t you show your favorite aunt what you’re playing with? Aunt Helene would reeeeally love to see.”

The boy turned away from her and she sighed, but before she knew it, she had begun to cry. The tears spilled freely and she sat up and tried to wipe them with the back sleeve of her hoodie. She sniffled into the fabric and sobbed as she brought her knees closer to her body.

“I’m sorry,” Antoine’s quiet voice came from under the bed, and when Helene wiped her eyes she saw him come out. On her knees, with the uttermost care, he placed a piece of paper. It was the picture of a doll roughly cut out from a magazine, and although Helene could tell care had been intended, the silhouette lacked the smooth edges that come with the dexterity of a practiced hand with scissors.

Helene sniffled. “What’s this Antoine?” She asked tried to smile.

Antoine looked down, and then away and then mumbled something. “Lea.”

“And who is Lea?” Helene asked wiping her own tears. Antoine said nothing. “Is she your doll?”

Antoine nodded.

Helene nodded back, and for a brief moment there was a silent understanding between them. Aunt Helene returned Lea to Antoine, and Antoine took the doll and returned to his lair under the bed. For a brief moment Helene remembered a forgotten day when she had been taking care of Antoine overnight and he had come to her as she was painting her nails a nice lilac. He had wanted his nails painted that color too. She had laughed and told him little boys did not paint their nails. Antoine had gotten upset, and she, feeling terrible, had given in and painted his nails the same lilac color. Charlotte had been terribly upset when she had come home that night. She had accused Helen of trying to make her son “gay” and kept reminding her little sister of the hard work that was being a single parent. It was rough, and she had fucked up her own life, but she would die a million times before fucking Antoine’s life too. He was her precious son, and she was the tigress that would raise him healthily and guard him from heartbreak.

New York, 2013

“Ana’s been dead three years,” That was Jason’s subtle way of trying to get Peter out of bed on Old Hallows Eve that year, and prepared as he was for Peter’s glare, it still shook him a bit. The glare had lost some of the hurt and poison it seemed to shoot out whenever anyone mentioned Ana’s name and it had become more of a reflex. It had become something that Peter was expected to do, and something other’s had come to expect, but still, this one was strong.

Jason shrugged it off and took a step back. “All I’m saying, man, is that you should get out of bed and at least shower,”

It was not like Peter had been lying on his bed the last three years. The reason that he would not get out of bed today was because since Ana died, his dating life had swirled down an enormous toilet full of really crappy, stinking shit.

“Besides, I thought you said that Liam was a nice guy and stuff,” Jason tried again. “C'mon, man.”

“You are the one who said that,” Peter grunted as he looked away, trying to shield his eyes from the light.

“Yes, I did. And you are not going to make me look bad after I went through the trouble of talking you up to a guy, Peter Maringa. So, get your ass out of bed.”

Peter got out of bed an hour later. He did shower, but when he got dressed he wasn’t really trying to look any better than he normally did. He was going on a date, not because he wanted to, so much as because he was a gay man with friends who had bigger expectations out of his dating life than he himself did. The whole thing surely had to say something about his dating life. The adjectives ‘sad’ and ‘pathetic’ would cover it under ordinary circumstances, but because this was Peter Maringa he chose to describe it as ‘doleful’ and ‘hapless’. The truth is that if he was going at all, it was because of Jason. Yes, he was unhappy that he had set him up on the date, but he could sort that out later; however, he would not be the cause of an awkward situation for his friend.

When Peter arrived to the restaurant everything was wrong. The song in the background was overly corny, the tables of the Manhattan restaurant were way too close together and offered a fake sense of intimacy, besides, Peter was sure that the candles posed a mild fire hazard. Sighing, Peter braced himself for disaster. After all, how else could the evening end? The maître d’ greeted him with a smile that Peter found offensive. The man in the tux was smiling because it was his job, not because he meant it, in truth, Peter thought, he was probably having a miserable day. The maître d’ had a lovely girl dressed I black and white lead him to a table in the far end of the restaurant. It was located in a cozy corner and Peter’s date stood up to greet him when he saw him. Peter thought that this guy, Liam, smiled a little too much and for a little too long. He noted that despite the awkwardness of it all, the man had an attractive smile. It was one of those smiles that are large because the person’s mouth is so big, but rather than being scary it came across as warm and genuine. It was the type of smile that you would expect from a country boy or a tooth model. But Liam was neither.

Liam was an attorney and worked for a medium-sized firm in Wall Street that specialized in trusts and estate planning. Peter noticed Liam was wearing an expensive suit, yet it was apparent that he had gone home to change and this was not what he had worn to work. In a way, the attire came across as less uptight, and more casual, without losing elegance or style. The dark navy blue complimented Liam’s blue eyes and dirty blond hair nicely. From what Peter could gather, even the way Liam’s hair was cut, which was vaguely reminiscent of Hank F. Kennedy, was expensive. The seemingly sybaritic lifestyle of this Liam made Peter uncomfortable.

Peter felt seriously underdressed. He was wearing slacks, a button down t-shirt, and yes, he had a nice jacket on, but it did not match the effect of Liam’s well-tailored suit. He smiled awkwardly as he took a seat opposite the attorney without really greeting him. He was not sure what he was doing. Immediately he regretted it, and semi-rose up again to shake Liam’s hand as if this were a business dinner and not a date.

“Sorry,” he apologized clearing his throat. “I haven’t done this in a while.”

Liam raised his hand to stop him and insisted that there was no need to apologize. They could just look at the menu together, maybe order some wine, and things would develop as they should. Peter agreed gratefully, and smiled nervously. Yes. He could manage that. While Peter looked at the wine list, and grew horrified at the prices per bottle, the thought came to his mind that he had not been on a first date since he met Ana.

***

It had been a Halloween Night and Peter’s junior year in college. He was a New Jersey boy through and through and he was attending the state university. It had been the good times. Even though Peter was a junior, he had yet to declare a major, something about the whole having to decide his life at 20 seemed unfair to him. Not only that, but being a young gay boy out there in the world made binding oneself to the inflexibility of class very impractical, and in fact very much torturous. Peter has been dating the same guy since high school: Chris, short for Christopher, Reilly. Chris and Peter had enjoyed a long-lasting, solid relationship. They split up strictly because it was college and it was long distance. Chris had gotten accepted into a theater arts program in New York, and although they had tried to remain close and were often travelling between states to be together, the commute and expense had become a burden, and the two of them had decided to call it off for a few months and get together in the summer when they would both be home. They would never get together that summer though, because although Peter did not know it, he was about to meet the hardest rebound of his life that night at a frat house on campus.

When Ana walked into the room, she was nothing but long legs and heels. She naturally towered over both the women and the men in the room, and it was impossible not to look at her. She had long black hair with a few lighter-colored highlights and very dark brown eyes. She was dressed as a zombie nurse. Her lips were red and there was fake blood on the corner of her mouth as if she had been unable to decide whether she wanted to be a zombie or a vampire, but there were no fangs, Peter noted. The skirt was very high up, and to anyone who looked down she was all perfectly slim thighs. The men were going crazy. Well, the straight men. Peter did not pay a second thought to her until later in the night when Peter was ogling after some cutie on the dance floor that was looking at her.

“Bitch,” Peter said out loud and took another drink of cheap beer from a red solo cup.

How Ana heard him from where she stood in the crowded house that was filled with loud music, booze, party lights and paper decorations, he did not know. That is, if she had heard him at all. But she must have, since she made her way to him with a bit of a smile.

“He’s straight,” Were the first words Ana spoke to Peter as she nodded towards the dance floor and she chuckled in a flirtatious manner before hiding her face behind the empty red solo cup she was holding in her hand. “So, you don’t stand a chance,” She said shrugging.

“And you do?” Peter asked bitterly, although he tried to look cool about it.

Ana shrugged again and looked at him.

“I don’t think so.” she replied.

The answer confused Peter and he looked up again at this beautiful, tall woman. Too tall. Even without the heels, she would be towering over everyone, her stature was truly Amazonian. She was skinny, so skinny you could easily see her bones through the skin, yet the bones had sharp edges and were not as rounded as he would have expected. The hand that was holding the red solo cup had such long fingers, slender yes, but long. The palm of her hand was also large, and as Peter’s eyes travelled upward he noticed the adam’s apple cleverly concealed behind a high nurse’s collar.

“You’re a dude!” Peter almost gasped at the realization, but Ana laughed. It had been one of his least eloquent moment, Ana’s laugh struck him as annoying. Peter felt both dumb and betrayed, as if he had been deliberately tricked into thinking that this guy was a woman. “Jesus Christ, dude!”

Ana shrugged again. She always did that, now that Peter thought about it.

“It’s Halloween,” She answered simply, and she had a point, a fact that further wounded Peter’s pride.

“I’m Peter Maringa,” Peter tried to steer the conversation away from the obvious.

“That’s a formal introduction for you,” Ana said with a smile as she leaned against the wall again hiding her face behind the empty red solo cup from which she pretended to drink. “I’m Antoine. I mean,” she corrected herself with a smile as she half-mocked Peter’s formality. “Antoine Beauchamp.”

“Are you like, French?” Peter asked as he tried to spell out the name in his mind. Ana shook her head.

“Mom’s Canadian, but I’m a Jersey gal,” Ana smiled again, and Peter smiled back. “You’re in my class you know,” She said simply. “World Masterpieces. You sit at the front. I sit at the back,” She smiled. “Like way back,” She added with a chuckle.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you around school,”

“Liar,” She said smiling again, and Peter laughed. It was his turn to shrug.

“You caught me. But I will definitely be looking Monday,”

“Sure you will,” She said, and with another small chuckle she turned around and disappeared into the crowd of dancing clowns, airplane captains, mummies and semi-naked dudes and chicks. Peter followed her with his eyes. She held a strange fascination for him, now that he knew that she was a guy and he was curious. Of course, it was Halloween, and even straight guys dressed up as women and paraded around with wigs and fake triple Ds. But even then Peter knew that there was striking about Ana as a girl, and he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it then. Now when he thought back on it, it seemed quite obvious to him that Ana had always moved gracefully, batted her eyelashes girlishly, and well, had always been a girl at heart.

***

“Peter?” Liam smiled, again for a little too long. Peter could see that the young attorney was concerned, and so he shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, uhm. Sorry. You were saying?”

Liam looked apologetically at the young girl who was waiting for them to order drinks, and then quickly said something with a pronunciation that Peter did not quite catch.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said embarrassed that he had spaced out.

“It’s no big deal,” Liam assured him, and this time his smile was warmer. It was then that Peter decided that he would at least give it a try. Liam was being way too nice, and he had been incredibly rude. “Jason warned me,” Liam smiled again. “Well, he said you haven’t been on the dating scene since your boyfriend passed.”

“Girlfriend,” Peter corrected him.

“True, sorry,” Liam apologized, obviously flustered. Peter shook his head.

“It’s alright,” They needed to change the subject fast or this would quickly become the worst first date ever. “So, you’re a lawyer.”

Liam nodded, glad to have been shown a way out. “Yeah, estates and trusts and people dying, you know.” It was obvious from Liam’s desperate reach for the sparkling water and rapid drinking that he thought that he had again overstepped his bounds within the conversation. The attorney was not very smooth, but why should Peter judge? He had not even known that Liam had ordered sparkling instead of tap. Secretly, a part of Peter hoped that Liam would foot the whole of the bill, him being a lawyer and all.

“You’re a writer right?” Liam finally seemed to have found words and offered yet another transition.

“An editor, actually,” Peter corrected him just before the wine came.

“But you wrote a story for The New Yorker?”

Peter eyes grew wide and for the first time during the course of their date, he looked up at Liam. “You read it?”

            Liam was shocked by the tone of hurt and incredulousness that he heard in Peter’s voice. It was an accusation, not a simple question.

            “That was personal!” Peter raised his voice, and Liam looked around when he noticed that several eyes had turned curiously at their table.

            “It was published,” Liam defended, his voice soft, yet firm.