Chapter One
Mark sighed and got out of his vehicle, feeling the same frisson of dread he felt every Sunday afternoon while faithfully interacting with his family. He served as both favorite uncle and dutiful son, entertaining the kids before supper and cleaning up the kitchen after supper prior to making his escape. Ma would raise a ruckus if he missed a Roncalli Sunday dinner and Pop would chew his ass if he upset his mother. The saying “if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy” was especially true in their family. Pop doted on Ma, always had, and anyone who upset her would hear about it.
Good thing the pageant ended on Friday. He’d make next Sunday’s dinner and no one would be the wiser. Of course, he’d miss his brother’s last-minute birthday bash, which couldn’t be helped, and for which he’d never hear the end of. But he’d promised Nonna and, for him, that trumped just about everything.
All chatter stopped and nine heads swiveled his way when he entered the dining room. It was like facing a firing squad, only he hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, besides be himself. Being himself, in this family, was wrong.
“You’re late.”
And here we go.
“Yes, I am,” Mark said to Mario. “I called Ma and let her know I had a flat tire.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” Mark took his seat and slid his napkin over his lap. Why she hadn’t shared that, he didn’t know, but it was what it was. It wasn’t Sunday dinner without him getting his chops busted for something. He dished up some lasagna. “Smells great, Ma.”
“Thank you, baby.”
“So how’s work,” Pop asked.
“Work’s fine, Pop. Busy. The start of tax season, you know? I’ll be blowing and going for the next three months.” Pop didn’t ask about Lady Jazz. He never did. None of them did. Mark being a drag queen was a smutch on the Roncalli family name and his avocation was never acknowledged unless he was being ridiculed.
Chatter picked up again and Mark ate as conversations flowed around him.
“So your brother met a girl,” Ma said during a lull, pleasure lighting her features. Three of her five sons were married and had given her nine grandchildren so far.
Mark’s stomach sank, but he nodded and smiled at Paul. “Cool. What’s her name?”
“Stephanie Cantrell.” Paul waxed poetic for several minutes about how they’d met and their first date and how he was going to bring her to dinner soon.
Of all his brothers, Paul was the closest to Mark in age and was the least judgmental. Mark could be happy that Paul had met someone special, although that meant the family focus would turn toward Mark, and there would be nothing but grief until he died or until he walked away from his family. He’d never walk away though; family was family. That notion had been drilled into him since he was a kid. It was the only reason he was expected at any family gathering. That and the fact that he wrangled the kids who all seemed oblivious so far to the adults’ sentiment toward him. He hoped they’d learn acceptance and tolerance at school, because they sure weren’t going to learn it at home.
“When are you going to bring someone home?” Dante asked, one eyebrow raised and his smirk hidden behind the wineglass he’d just lifted to his face.
Mark was never going to bring someone home. How could he? Guys like him were an aberration of the male species, as his brothers had told him many times. Not only gay, but a gay guy who liked to dress in women’s clothes and sing as if he were a woman. Somehow, fundamentally broken. Who in the world would want to date him?
“And how exactly would that work?” Mark asked. “I bring someone home and you’re gonna make snide remarks the whole time? I’ll pass.” He’d given up hope of meeting someone, there was no point.
“If you were a real man, there’d be no reason to,” Dante said.
Mark sighed. His family was right. The few men he’d dated over the years embraced the concept of drag queens in general, but not one of them had been able to accept the reality of dating one.
Thankfully, talk turned to the coming weather front and then to various grandchildren and they left him alone for the rest of the meal. Mark cleaned the kitchen as usual. It’d been his special time with Nonna before she’d gone into the hospital and subsequently died. Now it was just expected. But it got him out of further “visiting” with his brothers, so he kept doing it.
Dishes done, Mark kissed his mother goodbye and left the house. He slid into the front seat and dropped his forehead against the steering wheel. Every week he left his parents’ house feeling beat down and worthless. He really should stop putting himself through the misery, but family was family, and his mother was his mother. She wasn’t getting any younger, and, as they learned with Nonna, you weren’t guaranteed tomorrow.
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