M ary and Anthony dropped by her parents’ for a quiet dinner, but the first clue that something was different was the music playing when they opened the front door. They got inside and stood mystified by the sight: octogenarians packed the living room, their gray heads and bald pates bobbing as they fox-trotted or stood in groups, talking, laughing, and drinking beer. Mary was astounded. It was getting crazier and crazier at her parents, and she suspected AARP was behind it.
“What’s going on here?” Mary asked, but no one even noticed they were inside. The dining room was full, too, even though it was usually reserved for Christmas, Easter, or another occasion when something really good had happened to Jesus Christ.
“Ma?” Anthony asked, and from the middle of the crowd, Elvira Rotunno turned around, brightening behind her glasses. She had on a pretty blue dress, worn without an apron, and held a green bottle of Rolling Rock beer.
“Ant! What’re you doin’ here?”
“Maria!” Mary’s mother emerged with open arms. “Maria, I was so worry.”
“Honey!” Mary’s father materialized at her mother’s side, dressed in his Sunday best. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Both parents threw their arms around her, and when they broke up their clinch, everyone had turned to watch, their smiles a sea of dentures. Mary spotted the Elmo-red comb-over of Tony-From-Down-The-Block, the Mr. Potatohead glasses of Tony Two Feet Pensiera, and the tiny, tanned head of Pigeon Tony. But she was surprised to see Bernice Foglia, hoisting a bottle of beer. In the background, Frank Sinatra launched into “Just in Time.”
“How do you like our mixer?” Her father beamed, gesturing at the crowd with his heavy hand. “It’s the Sinatra Society and the Dean Martin Club. We did it together.”
“You’re kidding.” Mary laughed, delighted. “How did that happen?”
“I knew you were busy with Trish Gambone and all, so I figured I’d pick up the phone and call Mrs. Foglia myself.” Her father grinned, and behind him, Mrs. Foglia came forward with Tony-From-Down-The-Block. You didn’t have to be an amateur sleuth to see the new warmth between them.
“It’s like this,” Mrs. Foglia said, wagging a finger. “Tony said he was sorry to me and Frank, and that’s good enough for me.”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block nodded. “Then she apologized for what she said about Dean. Now everything is copasetic.”
Mrs. Foglia looked over sharply. “You apologized first. Then I apologized.”
Mary interrupted before the truce collapsed. “I think that’s terrific. No more litigation, no more fighting. Peace is better than war, and love came just in time.”
“I did good, huh, Mare?” her father asked, grinning, and in response she gave him another big hug.
“I love you, Pop.” Mary hugged him one more time, then her mother, and just when she thought the hugfest was over, Anthony threw his arms around her and gave her a big kiss.
“You’re amazing,” he said, looking down at her, his dark eyes warm, and suddenly from the crowd, came a gasp. Elvira Rotunno stood aghast, her forehead creased with bewilderment and her eyes focused on her son.
“Ant’n’y, honey? What are you doing, kissing Mary like that?”
For a minute, Mary didn’t understand, then she remembered.
Anthony smiled. “Ma, I have something to tell you.”
The room fell silent except for Frank Sinatra, and everybody held his breath.
“Ma, I’m not gay. I never was gay and I’m never going to be gay.”
“Ant, it’s okay. I know you’re gay and I love you anyway.” Elvira gestured at the crowd. “We all know. I told everybody, it’s like Rock Hudson. We’re all fine with it, aren’t we?”
The room murmured in approval, though Mary spotted two members of the Dean Martin Fan Club exchanging looks in the back of the crowd. Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime, but only if the somebodies were a boy and a girl.
“Mom, no.” Anthony laughed. “I’m really not gay. I just like books and wine and opera.”
“That’s not true, son. You don’t have to lie. I like it that you’re gay. It makes me feel special.”
“Listen, I’m straight. I can’t help it. I was born this way.”
“It’s possible, Elvira.” Mary’s father looked over with a half smile, but her lined mouth was set with skepticism.
“No, it’s not. What about Celine Dion? That’s proof!”
Mary saw a chance to broker a settlement. “Elvira, he was gay, but I converted him, and if I keep at it, he’ll stay on the straight and narrow.”
“Right, Ma. All it took was the love of a good woman.” Anthony threw his arm around Mary and gave her a squeeze. “This woman.”
Mary’s parents beamed, and Elvira looked from Anthony to Mary and back again, then broke into a smile.
“That, I can understand,” she said, finally.