3 Chez Paris

Gwendolyn Bayner was waiting for her sixteen-year-old daughter to join her at Chez Paris. The restaurant, which was purposefully overpriced in order to keep out the lower classes, sat atop a thirty-story hotel on the shoreline of Boca Raton, Florida, just down the street from Bayner Genetics. Through the picture windows that surrounded the dining room, she watched the setting sun create a pink and orange smear above the suburbs to the west and, beyond them, the sugar cane fields where dirt-poor migrant workers produced the sugar cubes favored by the rich and their horses.

Such is life, she thought.

She ordered a double Manhattan, her second, with three cherries. A piano started up in an adjacent room. Mozart, she knew immediately, his Piano Sonata No. 1, written when the master was a mere eighteen years old, just two years older than her aimless daughter, who, being a modern American teen, didn’t know the difference between Mozart and macaroni and cheese.

Gwendolyn coerced her daughter, her only child, to meet her at Chez Paris every Friday night at seven o’clock. She did this the way all rich parents do: by threatening to cancel the credit card the girl used to lavish gifts on less affluent schoolmates who pretended to be her best friend forever, but usually lasted only as long as the largess held out.

Gwendolyn glanced at her diamond Rolex. It was seven-twenty. Barbie was late, as usual. Gwendolyn had threatened to cancel the girl’s Visa even for tardiness, but Barbie always had an excuse, most often car trouble. Even though she’d just started driving three months before, she’d grown tired of the small Mercedes Benz her mother had given her. She had her eye on a Lexus twice as expensive, although she was unaware of what either car cost and, being her mother’s daughter, couldn’t have cared less.

Finally, Gwendolyn saw Barbie making her way across the dining room. She was dressed all in black. Several months earlier she had adopted the shocking gothic style of her middle-class peers and, despite her wealth, their petty pessimism as well. She’d dyed her blonde hair jet black, then let a pale yellow stripe emerge down the center of her cranium, which her mother thought made her look like a skunk. The girl’s fingernails were painted charcoal black, as were her lips and eyelids. Gwendolyn knew that Barbie had paid plenty for the look. She’d seen the Visa bills.

Barbie strolled through the busy dining room as if it were deserted. Scurrying waiters threw her scornful looks as they pirouetted around her snotty insolence with their loaded trays twirling precariously overhead. Finally, Barbie made it to the table and dropped dejectedly into a chair opposite her mother, as if she were about to be scolded.

“God!” she said. “What is that shitty music?”

“I believe it’s Mozart, dear. He wrote it when he was about your age.”

“That explains it, then.”

Gwendolyn resisted the urge to lecture her daughter yet again on her favorite prodigy’s incomparable genius and instead said, “So what’s new? What did you do this week?”

“Nothing. Same old thing. School, shopping, school, shopping. It’s so boring!”

“I can certainly put the shopping to an end.”

Barbie glared at her mother.

“I’m here,” she said. “Where’s the stupid waiter?”

Just then, a lithe young man with closely cropped hair and a small diamond stud in one ear slid up as if on ice.

“I’m right here, my dove!” he said, addressing Barbie but giving a sideways glance to Gwendolyn. “You are looking fabulous tonight, peanut. I myself never tire of black!” He bent at the waist as if to sniff her. “And what is that perfume? Eu du merde? Delightful!”

“It’s BO, douche bag.”

“Barbara!” Gwendolyn said. “Remember what I told you! Never fuck with people who make your food!”

“That is so correct, madam, although I would never put it so brusquely! She’s an adorable little imp, is she not?”

“Charming,” Gwendolyn said.

The waiter turned back to Barbie. “And what will the little dear be dining on this evening? The usual chicken fingers? Or shall we choose something from the big girl’s menu tonight?”

“You haven’t given me a menu yet, Sir Douche-a-Lot.”

“Oh! You are so right mon pétunia peu! Here you are.”

He handed the girl a heavy leather-bound menu. Barbie glanced at it briefly, then tossed it onto the table, knocking over her water glass. The waiter quickly righted the glass, pulled a cloth from his back pocket, and began mopping up the mess.

Barbie ignored him and said, “Bring me a salad. No dressing, no tomato, no onion, no carrot, no fucking croutons.”

“Oui, ma belle!” the waiter said, dabbing at the wet tablecloth. He turned to Gwendolyn. “And for the madam?”

“I’ll have a filet mignon, please. Rare. Steamed vegetables. Mushroom risotto, extra creamy.”

“Very good, madam. And another Manhattan?”

“Please. A double. Three cherries. And bring your best bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape.”

“Excellent! I’ll send the sommelier right over!”

The waiter dropped the soaked rag into Barbie’s water glass. She glared at him.

“Hey!” she said.

The waiter lifted the water glass away. “More water, mon bâton peu de céleri?” he said.

“A Coke,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.

“Excellent choice! It’s a shame you missed the sunset, sugar pie. It was enough to make you devout. Have a lovely evening ladies.”

He pivoted on one foot and left.

Gwendolyn looked at Barbie. “Honestly, Barbara, I don’t know why you have to be so disagreeable. He’ll probably spit in your salad.”

“He wouldn’t dare!” She stared at the damp tablecloth and said, “Can I have some of your water? You’re sure not going to drink it.”

“Sure, sweetie, go ahead.”

Barbie reached across the table, grabbed the water, took three big gulps, then set the heavy glass down dramatically in front of her and placed her hands on either side of it, palms down, as if bracing herself.

“I have something to tell you, mother,” she said, “and you’re not going to like it.”

Gwendolyn downed what was left of her second Manhattan and wondered what was taking the third so long to arrive.

“What is it, sweetie? I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

Barbie took a big breath, let it out, then said, “I’m gay.”

Just then, the third Manhattan arrived. Thank God, Gwendolyn thought.

“Thank you, Georgie,” she said. She took a healthy swig of the freshly-poured cocktail, fished out one of the three cherries with her manicured nails, then popped it into her mouth, leaving the red stem hanging out.

“You are not!” she mumbled.

Gwendolyn pulled at the stem with her thumb and index finger, then placed it on the table beside the six others. It was a trick Douglas Douchay had taught her to keep track of how many drinks she’d had, not that it ever stopped her from having another.

“You most certainly are not!” she repeated once she’d swallowed the cherry.

“I am so! I hate boys and I love girls. That makes me gay. Sandy said you’d be pissed!”

Gwendolyn took another sip of the Manhattan.

“Oh, sweetie! I’m not upset. I’m sure it’s just a stage you’re going through. What have those awful boys done to you? They can be so mean!”

“Girls can be just as mean as boys, mother dear. That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying I hate to kiss them. They stink, and they’re always jamming my hand into their pants. Girls are nicer. They’re softer. They smell nice, and they know how to kiss!”

“I’m sure this is just a little phase, dear. An experimentation. Quite normal,” was all Gwendolyn could think to say. “It’s fine. You’ll get over it. Let’s talk about something else. How’s the car running? Is it giving you trouble again? Is that why you were late tonight?”

“Don’t change the subject, mother! You’re always changing the subject! Deal with it! I’m gay! A lesbian! A carpet muncher! I like to eat pussy!”

At that point, the other patrons at Chez Paris interrupted their own conversations and directed their attention toward the commotion at the table by the window. Most of them were aware of Gwendolyn’s feral daughter. They tried to be discreet, hiding their smiles behind raised napkins and suppressing their snickers, but Gwendolyn’s ears burned and she could feel their eyes on her neck.

“Barbara! For Christ’s sake!” she whispered. “We’re in a restaurant! We’ll talk about this at home!”

“I’m not coming home tonight. I’m sleeping over at Sandy’s house. She’s my girlfriend. I love her.”

The sommelier arrived with a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape swaddled in a thick white napkin and held it out for Gwendolyn’s inspection. Gwendolyn nodded without looking at it.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Barbie said. She got up and left.

“A lovely Chateau La Nerthe, madam. Nineteen-ninety-two. Our last bottle. I’m sure it will please you.”

The sommelier produced a compact cork puller from his vest pocket and removed the cork with a single strong pull. It made a satisfying pop. Without suggesting that Gwendolyn inspect the cork, he decanted the deep purple liquid into a crystal carafe, swirled it artistically, put his educated nose to it, then poured a splash into her wine glass.

“Such a big wine needs ten or fifteen minutes to breathe,” he said.

Gwendolyn lifted the glass to her nose. “Thank you, Jacques, it smells lovely.”

“Madam.”

The sommelier bowed subtly, spun on his heels, and left.

Barbie returned. She was holding hands with another girl who looked to be about her age. The girl was thin, pretty, and wore a flouncy smock printed with sand dollars and sea horses. On her petite feet she wore sandals decorated with sea shells. Her naturally blonde hair had been brushed with care and her lips and fingernails were painted a girly pink.

The girl let loose of Barbie’s hand. Barbie fell into her chair. Then the girl extended her left hand to Gwendolyn and gave a small curtsy.

“Mrs. Bayner, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said.

Gwendolyn took the girl’s manicured hand and looked at Barbie, who was digging for an ice cube in the water glass.

“Bayner is my maiden name, dear. So it’s Ms. Bayner or Miss Bayner, whichever you prefer. My married name…well, I guess I’ve just forgotten what my married name was! It was so long ago!”

Barbie made a tsk sound and looked up at the girl.

“Douchay,” she said. “My dad’s name was Douglas Douchay. My mom threw all his crap out into the street one day and that’s the last I saw of him. I assume she paid a boatload to have him disappear.”

The girl quickly released Gwendolyn’s hand, took a step back and looked at Barbie, horrified. Barbie laughed and said, “I don’t mean she had him killed, silly! What kind of people do you think we are? I mean she just pays him to stay away from me. You know, the same way she threatens me with the Visa. If he ever had lunch with me or anything, he’d lose his allowance, that’s all. Whatever. If he agreed to abandon me for any amount of money, he is a douchebag.”

“Barbie Douchay,” the girl said with a giggle.

Barbie was not amused. “My name is Barbie Bayner,” she said.

The girl stepped back to Gwendolyn and retook her hand.

“I have a funny name, too, Ms. Bayner. I’m Sandy Shore.” She curtsied again, this time with a flourish.

“What a lovely name,” Gwendolyn said. “Your parents must have a wonderful sense of humor.”

“Not really. They named me Sandra, or Sawndra as they say it. I changed it to Sandy a couple years ago. Everybody loves a fun day at the beach, so everybody loves me! Isn’t that cool?”

“Very,” Gwendolyn said. She plucked the second cherry from her third Manhattan, ripped the artificially colored fruit from its stem, and placed the stem beside the seven others.

“Have you eaten, dear?” she said. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“Oh, no thank you, ma’am. A girl’s got to watch her figure, you know.”

“Humph! Those boys are so demanding, aren’t they? You look as though you’d blow away in a light breeze. Please join us anyway.”

Gwendolyn gestured at the chair beside Barbie. The girl sat.

“I’m glad I chose a table for four tonight, Barbie. You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest!”

“This is no guest, mother. This is my lover.”

“Is that so!” Gwendolyn said.

The Manhattans had taken effect. Gwendolyn was feeling a little slow.

“She...” Gwendolyn looked at Sandy Shore. “You certainly don’t look gay!”

“No ma’am,” Sandy Shore said.

“She’s the girl, mother. I’m the boy.”

“I see,” Gwendolyn said. “I’m afraid I’m not very well versed in the ways of ... gay people.”

“It’s OK, Mrs. Bayner,” Sandy Shore said. “You can call us lesbians. We’re good with it.”

“Oh, that’s fine, Sandra. You seem like a lovely girl. But remember: it’s Ms. Bayner.”

“Yes, Ms. Bayner.”

A waiter brought the orders. Seeing and smelling the food, Sandy Shore had a change of heart and ordered a shrimp cocktail and a Coke. As Gwendolyn ate, Sandy Shore did most of the talking. She was an only child, she said, like Barbie. Her mother was a homemaker, although the nanny and the maid actually did most of the homemaking. Her father was a financial analyst.

“I don’t really know what that means,” Sandy Shore said. “But I know that’s what he is.”

Barbie ate two bites of unadorned lettuce that were better suited for a rabbit, then accepted three thumb-sized shrimp from Sandy Shore, who made Barbie playfully beg for them. As soon as the shrimp and the Cokes were gone, Barbie announced that she and Sandy had a busy schedule the next day and so had to leave.

“But it’s Saturday tomorrow, dear,” Gwendolyn said.

“We want to get up early so we can see the sun rise on the beach,” Barbie said. “Sandy lives on the beach, too.”

“How poetic,” Gwendolyn said.

She bade the girls goodbye and they left.

Just as Gwendolyn finished her third Manhattan, the waiter arrived and refilled her wine glass from the carafe.

“Quite a lovely young girl, madam. Your niece, perhaps?”

“Just a friend of my daughter’s,” Gwendolyn answered.

She lifted the wine to her lips.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were young lovers.”

“How nosy of you to notice,” Gwendolyn said. “I think they’re just playing.”

“If I may, madam, I would encourage you to handle the situation with kindness and delicacy. When I first announced myself to my parents, they wouldn’t talk to me for a year. My father took two years, in fact. It was just awful – more for him than for me. I pray you’ll not make a similar error.”

“Mind your own business, faggot,” Gwendolyn said. She saw nine cherry stems lying on the table. “Bring me another Manhattan. A double. Three cherries.”

“Yes, madam. As you wish, madam.”

Gwendolyn gazed out the window. The sun had set and the city lights were throwing a soft glow into the night sky. What was it, she wondered, that made a woman want to lie with another woman instead of being normal? Maybe it was her fault. Maybe it was because she’d thrown Douglas out of the house too soon and so deprived Barbie of a strong male figure. Or maybe, she thought, maybe it was something more, something deeper, something ingrained. Something genetic.