Happy Families by Tanita S. Davis Page B

hear the question and not answer.”
    “You sound like a lawyer,” Ysabel accuses, and I agree with a dissatisfied grunt.
    “Well, my father-in-law is one of the best.” Dad smiles briefly. “Let’s hear it.”
    Ysabel fiddles with her sleeves, not meeting Dad’s eyes. “When was the first time you wanted to dress in … to wear …” Ysabel trails off, clears her throat, and tries again. “When did you first want to dress up?”
    There’s a heartbeat of stillness. Dad moves his water glass, then fiddles absently with his napkin. “My whole life,” he says finally.
    My mouth opens before I can stop the words. “Your whole
life
?” I blurt. “You
knew
you were like this?”
    Dad looks down at his glass of water and deliberately reaches for it, making a ceremony out of grasping the straight cylinder, touching it to his lips, and setting it back on the table. “When I was four,” he says carefully, using his long fingers to line up the napkin with the edge of the table, “I was in a cousin’s wedding. I was the Bible boy. I remember being so jealous that my cousin Lily got to wear a dress with little white beads and lace, and a tiara with sequins. She got to be the flower girl, and all I got wasa black suit. No tiara.” He looks up and smiles crookedly. “That used to be one of my great-aunt Wilma’s favorite stories about me, about how I fell on the floor at the rehearsal dinner in a screaming fit, because Lily wouldn’t let me wear her tiara. My folks were still alive, back then.”
    Dad doesn’t talk much about his parents or the great-aunt who raised him after their deaths in a car crash when he was eight, so it’s hard to break the silence that follows.
    Ysabel’s voice, when it comes, is tentative. “So, you knew when you were four you wanted a tiara, but when did you start really dressing up?”
    “In college.” Dad chews his bottom lip and doesn’t elaborate. I get the feeling there’s more he could say and wonder if I asked, if this is one of the questions he would refuse to answer.
    I pile chips onto my appetizer plate, aware of a nervous energy that I need to burn, even though I’m not sure I have much of an appetite left. I’ve already had enough of this conversation, but we can’t stop when we’ve just gotten started, and there’s something I have to ask. I busy myself ladling salsa on my chips.
    “So, you’re not gay.” It’s a statement, but somehow my voice still sounds uncertain.
    Dad watches me patiently. “No.”
    “And you’re not going to … be gay. I mean, you’re not going to”—my gesture is vague, my eyes stray to a spot above his head—“have a surgery.”
    Dad shakes his head and fidgets with his glass again. “Surgery wouldn’t make me gay. Wearing women’s clothes doesn’t make me gay. I’m not sexually interested in
men
.” He looks up steadily. “Either way, surgery’s not an option for me.”
    “Why?” Ysabel blurts, and Dad grimaces and rubs his forehead.
    “It’s not something I need,” he says awkwardly. He shifts back in his seat, the fake leather squeaking a little under his worn jeans, and unbuttons his cuffs to roll up his sleeves. “Ys, I’m not sure I can explain that one to you, any more than I can explain the reasons behind wanting to wear women’s clothes.” Dad lowers his voice, flicking a quick glance around the room. I can’t help but follow suit, staring at the profiles of the people at the tables around us. They’re having business conversations or laughing and smiling with friends. Only we look tense.
    Dad’s shoulders hunch as he scoots his chair forward. He clears his throat and reaches for the basket of chips closest to him. I can see the shine of sweat along his hairline. “Anything else?”
    “Yes,” Ysabel says, taking control of the conversation again. “Did you know anyone else like you? I mean, in your family?”
    “It’s not genetic,” my father says, his gaze flicking to meet mine. I