cocktail. Or maybe two. I’m sure your little sister will be a good hostess.” He winked 80 P.A. Brown
at Imani.
As they walked away, Chris heard David ask about the roses that proliferated everywhere. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d do so well here, no winter and so hot in the summer.”
Chris watched the two of them round the corner of the house. He marveled at how much alike they were, not only in appearance, though that was strong, but in mannerisms.
He desperately hoped this would be good for David. After the fiasco of his mother the last thing he needed was more disappointment in his life.
“How long have you known David?” Imani asked.
“Nearly seven years,” Chris said.
“You live together?”
“Over five years. We’re married,” he blurted out. Chris didn’t get into the whole “how he met David” tale. It was too bizarre for someone not familiar with it through the intense media coverage they had endured at the time. “We were married a little over a year ago.”
He watched her face for the inevitable disgust. He figured it was enough of a shock just to hear the word marry.
He could tell she was skirting the whole gay aspect of their relationship, while at the same time she was dying of curiosity.
He’d run into that a lot with some straights. They were too liberal to admit they were secretly uneasy around gays, and were usually vocal in their support of live and let live, but underneath there was always a tinge of revulsion or fear.
Imani seemed to be missing that.
So he asked her, “Does that bother you?”
“No,” she said softly. “Though I confess I don’t understand.
I know it’s not popular on the islands.”
“Sometimes it’s not popular back home.”
They watched David and his father reappear on the east side of the house. The pair crouched over another mass of roses BeRMudA heAt 81
growing up beside the house. Joel dug his hand into the black soil and showed it to David, talking all the time. Behind them was a tree bearing a crown of brilliant scarlet flowers.
Imani saw him looking. “A royal poinciana. My favorite tree.”
Chris didn’t recognize half the plants that filled flower beds and planters around the carefully manicured lawn. He had no doubt David would be able to rattle off every name and whether or not he could grow it back home.
“What’s with the white roofs?” he asked. “All the houses have them. Heat reflection?”
“No, they’re limestone. They act as water collectors. All the houses are built with cisterns underneath instead of… what do you call them…?”
“Basements? They don’t have them much in L.A. either—
earthquakes.”
“Here drinkable water is rare. There is no fresh water outlets anywhere. All our water comes from the cisterns.”
“What about the name, Rose Grotto? Is that Bermudian?”
“Actually it’s British. They often name their homes and estates.”
“Nice idea,” Chris said, wondering what he would call his home if he had the chance to do that. The Haven? Or The Bowery, since it was such a nest for him and David?
He was dragged out of his romantic fantasy when another scooter, much like the one Jay had fled on, blasted up the driveway, stopping beside the terrace. David straightened when the rider undid the snap of his helmet and stood, still straddling the scooter. The young man, clearly Joel’s son and David’s half-brother, sneered at him.
“So you’re the faggot pretending to be my father’s son.”
Monday, 11:15 am Rose Grotto, College Hill Road, Devonshire Parish, Bermuda
82 P.A. Brown
David stepped toward Chris. Joel put his hand on his arm, but David shook it off.
“Baker,” Joel said. “This is David, your half-brother.” Baker took off his helmet, shaking loose a thick mat of densely curled hair hanging down nearly to his shoulders. His eyes were dark and feral. They studied David then turned to rake over Chris’s slender form.
“You even have the nerve to bring
at Imani.
As they walked away, Chris heard David ask about the roses that proliferated everywhere. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d do so well here, no winter and so hot in the summer.”
Chris watched the two of them round the corner of the house. He marveled at how much alike they were, not only in appearance, though that was strong, but in mannerisms.
He desperately hoped this would be good for David. After the fiasco of his mother the last thing he needed was more disappointment in his life.
“How long have you known David?” Imani asked.
“Nearly seven years,” Chris said.
“You live together?”
“Over five years. We’re married,” he blurted out. Chris didn’t get into the whole “how he met David” tale. It was too bizarre for someone not familiar with it through the intense media coverage they had endured at the time. “We were married a little over a year ago.”
He watched her face for the inevitable disgust. He figured it was enough of a shock just to hear the word marry.
He could tell she was skirting the whole gay aspect of their relationship, while at the same time she was dying of curiosity.
He’d run into that a lot with some straights. They were too liberal to admit they were secretly uneasy around gays, and were usually vocal in their support of live and let live, but underneath there was always a tinge of revulsion or fear.
Imani seemed to be missing that.
So he asked her, “Does that bother you?”
“No,” she said softly. “Though I confess I don’t understand.
I know it’s not popular on the islands.”
“Sometimes it’s not popular back home.”
They watched David and his father reappear on the east side of the house. The pair crouched over another mass of roses BeRMudA heAt 81
growing up beside the house. Joel dug his hand into the black soil and showed it to David, talking all the time. Behind them was a tree bearing a crown of brilliant scarlet flowers.
Imani saw him looking. “A royal poinciana. My favorite tree.”
Chris didn’t recognize half the plants that filled flower beds and planters around the carefully manicured lawn. He had no doubt David would be able to rattle off every name and whether or not he could grow it back home.
“What’s with the white roofs?” he asked. “All the houses have them. Heat reflection?”
“No, they’re limestone. They act as water collectors. All the houses are built with cisterns underneath instead of… what do you call them…?”
“Basements? They don’t have them much in L.A. either—
earthquakes.”
“Here drinkable water is rare. There is no fresh water outlets anywhere. All our water comes from the cisterns.”
“What about the name, Rose Grotto? Is that Bermudian?”
“Actually it’s British. They often name their homes and estates.”
“Nice idea,” Chris said, wondering what he would call his home if he had the chance to do that. The Haven? Or The Bowery, since it was such a nest for him and David?
He was dragged out of his romantic fantasy when another scooter, much like the one Jay had fled on, blasted up the driveway, stopping beside the terrace. David straightened when the rider undid the snap of his helmet and stood, still straddling the scooter. The young man, clearly Joel’s son and David’s half-brother, sneered at him.
“So you’re the faggot pretending to be my father’s son.”
Monday, 11:15 am Rose Grotto, College Hill Road, Devonshire Parish, Bermuda
82 P.A. Brown
David stepped toward Chris. Joel put his hand on his arm, but David shook it off.
“Baker,” Joel said. “This is David, your half-brother.” Baker took off his helmet, shaking loose a thick mat of densely curled hair hanging down nearly to his shoulders. His eyes were dark and feral. They studied David then turned to rake over Chris’s slender form.
“You even have the nerve to bring
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