Mi Amor by Neil Plakcy

Author:Neil Plakcy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Loose Id, LLC

Burlesque

Friday morning my phone rang at nine a.m. Of course it woke me; I hadn't gotten to bed the night before until almost three, worrying and obsessing over my relationship with Javier. “Hello?” I mumbled.

"I spoke with your mother last night,” my father said. “I think it's time you and I had a chat about your future."

I sat bolt upright in bed. “Morning, Dad. Jean-Jacques and I checked our credit reports to be sure Vlad didn't open any accounts in our name. We can't think of anything else that might get us in trouble."

Lots of people believe that gay men have passive fathers and overattentive mothers. There's some theory that the lack of a strong male influence leads a guy to want that in a lover. And maybe for some guys it's true. But in my case, there was no doubt my father was in charge.

My great-grandfather was the oldest son of a minor count in rural Poland. The family lands were confiscated in the wake of World War I, so he emigrated to north Jersey, where he worked as a stable hand for a wealthy family. He changed his name from Belsztrebski to Beller, dropped his title, worked hard, and within a few years he owned a company supplying hay and feed to stables and race tracks.

My grandfather went to Princeton and then Columbia Law School, and he built the family home in Summit—a wealthy suburb of Newark. My father followed him to college and law school, and then Richard did the same thing.

My father's heritage is written all over him. He's tall and slim and always stands up straight. His sandy blond hair is trimmed every two weeks; he gets a manicure monthly, wears gold cuff links, and Princeton club ties. When I was a kid, he scared the shit out of me, and I obeyed him out of fear rather than fatherly love.

When I was a teenager, I got a few glimpses behind that patrician reserve. He loved to watch me swim and reveled in every trophy I won. He wasn't thrilled with my grades, but I saw him smile now and then when I danced at formal parties, when I wore a tuxedo or charmed my female relatives.

The truth is that while Richard is smarter and harder-working, I'm better looking and more charming. And in my parents’ world, both those criteria are cause for pride.

"This situation has raised a flag to your mother and me,” my father said. “We want you to come home."

"I'll be fine, Dad. Richard said the FBI isn't going to target me."

"Escape from prosecution is not what your mother and I consider ‘fine,’ Adam. I'm transferring you to Margaret. She'll book a flight for you."

"Dad.” I started to protest, but he'd already pushed the button to switch the call to his executive assistant. I liked Margaret—a fiftysomething widow who worshipped my father—and knew I couldn't argue with her, either.

"Your father would like you home in time for dinner,” she said, when she picked up.

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