Pass the Fucking Salt

Pass the Fucking Salt

-"Aba, Ima, I have something to tell you…"
-"Aba? Ima? You know my old roommate Shiri? The one with the colorful flag on her bedroom door?"
-"Aba. Ima. I'm gay."
- "Aba? Do you remember the time I was thirteen and took your car for a spin and smashed
the side mirror and you said you'd love me always no matter what?"
-"Aba, Ima, I love pussy."

Yeah. That's not it. I pull a face at the mirror and leave the bathroom, snapping off the light behind me. The six o'clock sun bathes my bedroom in purple velvet, fingering in through the shutters in a final attempt to say goodbye before flopping exhaustedly into the sea for the night. It's Friday, my favorite day of the week - no work! - and I'm on my way to my parents' house, somewhat less of a favorite but a decent meal nonetheless. And today I will tell them.
My mother holds a Ph.D. in Microbiology. She will take my declaration as a personal affront tailored specifically to meet the requirements of making life more difficult for her. She will then go online and read everything she can on the history, sociology, and psychology of the "phenomenon", (oh yes, that's how she will call it, as if holding the word in forceps) and recite these to me later over countless phone calls timed carefully for the peak of my working day. My father, on the other hand, will say nothing, but a silent bomb of worry will sink slowly to his stomach and begin its ominous tick, causing him to reach for the Pepto Bismol in the still hours of night.
They will have to manage. I can't wait any longer. Last week's Pride Parade found me standing on the sidewalk yet again: outside looking in. I am a liar. And a good one. I've got the shrug and the mumble down pat. I know how to look away when saying: "I'm seeing someone." But I'm tired of having to gulp down my heart when introducing myself to someone new. I'm tired of the tense shoulders and gritted teeth, tired of waiting to intercept and shoot down that casual question - that rude assumption - "what's his name?" Tired of loathing the flippant chatter at work: "my boyfriend this, my boyfriend that." I am twenty- three years old. I haven't been with a guy since the army, where I spent two years lying from morning to night. I don't want to lie anymore.

They are not unprepared. Last Saturday, at their house, I flipped the weekend supplement of Haaretz open to the article covering the controversy around the Jerusalem Pride Parade, and left it on the kitchen table for my mother to find. Just to lay the groundwork, to test the waters. I then tiptoed outside to the garden, my heart racing, waiting for the explosion that would or would not come.
About twenty minutes later, my mother wandered into the kitchen, dazed and tousled from her afternoon nap. Some long-lost compassionate voice in my head made a somber plea for dashing into the kitchen and snatching the paper away, but this got a jeering thumbs-down from the group of drunken louts that usually call the shots. Any minute now.

"Ella?"
I counted to three, and as casually as I could, called out:
"What?"
"Come here for a moment."

I raised my chin and walked into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, the newspaper open, pictures of drag queens and feathers screaming out from the page. Here we go.

"Could you get my reading glasses? They're upstairs by my bed. Oh, and set the table please. We'll be eating soon."

I lock the door with two turns of the key, jiggling the handle to make sure it's closed. It's only a two-bedroom, but it's the first place I've paid for myself, and I'm proud of it. It's on Smolenskin, a minute's walk from the 24-hr supermarket on Ben Yehuda where all the fashionable singles go and shopping is an afterthought. It's also five minutes from the beach. I hate sand, but it's nice to have the option. I bounce down the three floors, mentally checking the contents of my bag. Keys? Wallet? Cigarettes? Check. It would be a pain to have to turn back now.
I reach my flaking white Justy, coming apart at the seams but still operational, parked illegally on the red-and-white painted sidewalk. According to urban legend, the manyaks from the municipality don't write tickets on Sabbath. I have subscribed piously to this and many others, including taping a permanent sign to my windshield saying "Dear officer, I am unloading goods. Will be back shortly."
I whip the parking ticket from underneath the windshield wiper and, cursing softly, drop into my car, where I stuff it into the glove compartment along with its twenty or so predecessors. Not a good sign. I hope this evening turns out well.

"Aba? Ima? I have to tell you something-"

My mother opens the door, beaming. "Your brother is here with the kids."

My brother is exactly thirty-one years three months and two days old with precisely one wife and exactly two children. I say this because he is in the finance business and a stickler for details. My brother and his accurate family live in Cologne, Germany, which is exactly five hours and twelve minutes away. They come here twice a year on the dot: on Rosh Hashana and Passover.
It is June.

My father is out in the garden, glasses askew, face glowing, a grandson hanging off his back, and a granddaughter crawling busily underfoot.
"What a surprise, huh?" he pants, trying to get hold of the squirming boy.
"Yeah. Wow. What are they doing here?" I ask, trying to catch the eye of the little one on the ground.
"Gil's boss gave him a bonus for the second quarter, and he decided to surprise us with a visit. Look at the little one. She reminds me of you at that age."
I cock my head to one side, inspecting her. Gleefully, she stuffs a fistful of grass into her mouth.

"Would you be a dear and go get Safta?" my mother says, coming from behind and slapping me on the back in what she thinks is a youthful way.
"Why can't Gil get her? It'll give them time to catch up. Besides, I was hoping to talk to you-"
"Gadi watch out, you'll throw your back- NO! Roni, don't eat the petunias, sweetheart-"

I step into my father's Volvo, relaxing into the familiar scent of cologne and leather seats. My grandmother lives twenty minutes away at a retirement community in Hod Hasharon, and once every two or three weeks, it is my turn to pick her up for dinner. This entails going up to her apartment on the sixth floor, waiting patiently by the buzzer as she goes through the entire family tree ("Who is that? Miri? Gila? Gadi? Miki? David?...") and then walking into her apartment, inhaling must and cabbage under an overpowering reek of Charlie perfume, finding her fully dressed and made up, sitting on the sofa.
"I don't want to go," she always says.
It is then the job of the family member to nod understandingly, get her cane and purse, make sure the keys and her hearing aid are inside (she never wears it but takes it everywhere, in case someone says something interesting), and propel her gently but firmly to the door. This is usually quite a chore, but tonight I am grateful for the extra time to rehearse.

"Do you have my keys?" she asks for the third time as we exit the lobby.
"Yes, Safta. They're in your purse."
"Who else is going to be there?" She asks this as if she were a socialite on the way to a debutante's ball. A coming out ball, they used to call it. I smile.
"Aba, Ima, and guess what? Gil and the kids are here."
"Who? I can't hear you."

As we walk into the house, my brother kisses Safta gently on the cheek, and then slaps me on the back in what he thinks is a youthful way.

"How have you been?" he asks, and as I open my mouth to answer, turns abruptly to bark at my nephew, who is tugging at his pants.
"Oh, I've been gay," I say gamely.
"That's good, that's good. Not too bad myself. I really surprised the parents, now, didn't I. You should've seen the look on their faces when I walked in."
"You sure did. Where's Ariela?" I ask. My sister in law, if not the brightest, is a good partner for clandestinely topping up my wine at the dinner table.
"She went to visit her mother. She'll be here later."
"Is she OK?"
"Can't complain. Everything's good."
And that's it. My entire repertoire of conversation with my brother is finished, and we haven't even sat down to dinner.

"Aba, Ima, Gil, Safta, Roni, Dan, I have something to tell you…"

I am in front of the mirror again, this time in my mother's bathroom. She's redone it recently, and she now has her own toilette table with a little stool, on which I sit, staring at myself, trying to prepare for my big speech. I can hear the voices from downstairs, excited and jubilant. I fiddle with her lipstick, screwing it open, watching it rise, and then screwing it back closed. Chocolate Passion. What a stupid name. I screw it too far open and it breaks, tumbling out of the holder. I try to stick it back on to its base, but it yields and mashes into my fingers. Another bad sign. Should I postpone my news? Should I wait till everyone's gone and tackle my parents alone? I ponder this for a moment. I wonder if my brother's presence can actually help. Maybe he can cite statistics or something.

"Ella? Are you coming out?"
"Be right there," I call.
I wipe my chocolate stained fingers guiltily on my jeans and sweep the lipstick and its container into the trash. It's time. No more lying. I stare earnestly into the mirror, summoning up my courage. It's my time. Years of hiding and averting glances can finally be over. I will be able to look my parents in the eye. I hope they take it well. I hope they understand. It's not about them. Chocolate Passion is so not my color.

Dinner is a mess. My brother's children are not so accurate after all. Dan tries to pour the Coke and misses his glass by precisely two centimeters, causing my mother's voice to hit precisely 110 decibels. Roni sits in her high chair waving her fists and stuffing things into her mouth, stopping only to shriek for an exact total of eight and a half minutes when my mother takes a meticulously shredded napkin away from her. I sit in the middle of all this like a car entering the freeway, trying to weave my way into the conversation. My father, at his end of the table, interrogates my brother about work and repeats everything to Safta, who picks at her false teeth disinterestedly with a salad fork.

"Amos, that's his BOSS-"
"Dan sit DOWN!"
"And he is the CFO there, which means he's in charge of-"
"Gili have some more salad…"
"…Few more years, the kids will go to school, we'll start looking seriously-"


While clearing the table, I corner my mother in the kitchen.

"Ima, I want to talk to you and Aba about something."

She stands at the counter, scooping the remains of food into the trash and rinsing the plates.

"Those kids are so adorable, aren't they? You should really talk to your brother more. I wish you two were on better terms. Safta wants to go home. Maybe when you come back we can all sit and talk. OK?"

Driving Safta home, I am actually grateful for the silence. I melt into the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. I drive slowly, slower than usual. I am in no rush to go anywhere. I haven't told them. I look over at Safta. She's looking out at the buildings as they go by. She's eighty-two. I wonder what she's had to lie about.

"Safta? I have something to tell you."

And then, without any further preparation, I spill it out. I tell her about the army and my Troop Commander, about that boyfriend in high school who had suddenly disappeared. I raise my voice a little and tell her about that famous basketball player and that actress she likes, and about the Jerusalem Pride Parade. Finally, I tell her about Shiri, who hadn't been my roommate. I drive even slower, pulling up to her building, and we sit there, two silhouettes in a parking lot, as I speak on and on, gesturing with my hands. Throughout it all, she stares straight ahead, and I suddenly wince, remembering the hearing aid in her purse.

"Safta?"

She turns and looks directly at me, her lower lip slightly trembling. A crumb of cake has stuck to her lipstick, and I brush it gently away.

"My sister Dina lived with a woman for twelve years after the war," she says. "Twelve years, and no one asked questions. But I knew." She waves a finger in the air. "They were in America, and far away. It was difficult, and I was here. But I knew."
"It's not so difficult today, Safta," I say softly.
"You will have children, yes?"
"Someday. Yes."

Her eyes shine. "You're a good girl, Ella. A good girl. Come and visit me more often."