These Things Happen (10 page)

   "None? You're sure?"

   "Dad?" says Wesley. "Not to be offensive or anything? But you guys are boring, in a way."

   Kenny and I look at each other. "Who wants cocoa?" I say.

   "We're boring."

   "There's this one boy?" Wesley goes on. "Morgan Blatt?
His
dad was like a lawyer, then he became a woman and decided he hated being a lawyer. Now he's doing nails. And this other boy, Max Bloom? He lives with his mom, and his mom's girlfriend, and his mom's girlfriend's girlfriend."

   Kenny and I are, again, a double act. " Really!"

   "Right. I think she got out of Cuba on a boat filled with lesbians. The girlfriend's girlfriend, that is. So, have you guys seen my backpack? I don't want to forget, there's something you're supposed to sign."

   "George has," Kenny says, without thinking; as I know him, he knows me.

   "Hall closet," I say.

   "Awesome," Wesley says, grabbing a muffin.

   As soon as he's out, Kenny turns to me and whispers, "Have you noticed? Since he's been here, he seems to put everything in the form of a question?"

   "They all do that," I hiss back.

   "I never did," he says. "Should we ask Lola to say something?"

   Wesley is back with us now, holding out a paper for Kenny to sign. Kenny turns to me, which means
Have you seen my glasses?
I have, for I have taken to carrying an extra pair of his in my pocket at all times. I don't mind; I like solving problems that can actually be solved. And so, in our gavotte, I bow and hand him what he needs.

   "What is this?" Kenny asks, ever the lawyer, suspicious of things that need signatures.

   "It's nothing," Wesley says. "It's just permission for the ski trip." He turns to me, as if I'd just said,
But you know we can't afford
that, dear.
"And it's only a weekend, and I've got the money saved up from working downstairs, thanks to George." Kenny is studying it as if it were the Warren Commission Report. "And me and Theo are sharing a room, which makes it even less—"

   Kenny puts down the consent slip, hands his glasses back to me. " About your question."

   "Yes?"

   "I don't think I'll need to think about it," Kenny says.

   "You don't?" Wesley asks.

   "No," he says.

   
If you breathe.

   "So what you're saying, Dad, is—"

   "
No.
I'm saying that's my answer."

   "You don't think it's a choice—"

   Everything seems to wait; some sounds and smells come in, like company, through the door Wesley has left open, while Kenny considers what he's going to say. I smell garlic, five hundred cloves' worth, sautéed by Armando until the edges are golden, and I hear Henry, on to P
assion
in his Steve Loop, singing "I Read," complete with the prelude of Fosca's offstage scream. "Dad?" Wesley says.

   Kenny looks to me, though, not to him. He hasn't lost anything that he needs me to find; I know all those looks. This look is different, and somehow I feel it says,
Listen well.

   "No, I don't," he says.

   " Would you mind if I wrote something down?"

   "Why would you want to do that?"

   "Because what you say is always interesting to me, frankly."

   Kenny seems surprised. "It is?"

   "Yes! So I want to make sure I get it right."

   He takes a pen and legal pad from his backpack and writes the word
DAD
, in chunky red letters, earnestly showing a tip of tongue. "So, okay," he says "You, Dad, personally believe that being gay is not a choice, because—"

   Kenny sits up straight, which is always a sign that he knows exactly what he is going to say. "Because," he says, "why would anyone actually
choose
a way of life that they know will make life harder." He's set this out, as a truth held to be self-evident; no question mark was needed because the question, if it was ever open, is now closed. He turns to me, all the same, even though he knows what I'm going to say because there's nothing
to
say. "Right, George?"

   They're both looking at me; I know I should just echo what Kenny said, and what everyone says, because it's right, it's clearly the right thing to say. But I go dry. " Could I think about that?"

   "Sure," says Wesley. "But if you could let me know by tonight, it would be great, because like I said, it's semiurgent."

   Kenny looks at his watch. "And I have to get going," he says.

   "I just have one more question, Dad."

   Kenny turns to me. " Could you take this one, possibly?"

   But Wesley's right there, hanging in; I'm impressed, really. "So how did you know?"

   We team up again, Kenny and I. "Know?"

   "How did you know that you were gay?" Wesley says. "That your life would have gayness in it."

   I go blank, even though this is the question asked of every gay man on every first date, by every new gay friend, by cashiers at Trader Joe's.
When did you know?
No one ever asks, though,
Are you sure?

   "Is this for a class?" Kenny asks.

   "In a way," he says.

   "Just in a way?" says Kenny.

   "It's more for a friend."

"What kind of friend?"

"Well, a gay one, obviously," Wesley says.

Kenny looks to me.

" Could I think about that one, too?" I say.

"Sure," Wesley says. " What about you, Dad?"

"This we can talk about later—"

"But we won't. We never talk about things."

"We talk about plenty of things!"

"The gay this, gay that. Task forces, statues, the J
oads
—"

   I can't help myself; I was an actor for a long time, and of all my Toms, Tom Joad was my favorite. It's been years; do I still have the words? I open with a sound effect.

   "What are you doing?" says Kenny.

   "It's a train whistle," I say. "Moving through the Dust Bowl at 2 in the morning."

   "Why are you doing that?"

   
"I'll be there, Ma,"
I say.

   " 'Ma'?" says Kenny.

   " Where will you be?" Wesley asks.

   Once you play a part, it never fully leaves you; it just waits for a chance to come back.
"Wherever you look I'll be there . . . and when
folks eat the stuff they raise . . . why, I'll be there, too. . . ."

   Father and son are now a team, sharing a blank stare.

   "The movie," I say. "
Grapes of Wrath
."

   "It's a movie?" Wesley says. "Not just a book?"

   "Both. It got lucky. That was my Henry Fonda impression, by the way. He played Tom."

   "Who?"

   "Jane's father."

"Who?"

   Again, and again; he doesn't know anything. They, the Young, have every fact that ever was or will be an inch from their face on a glowing screen, and none of them know Ginger Rogers from Mary, Queen of Scots, or seem, particularly, to want to. He's not like I was at his age, which makes sense; he's not me. But I knew everything, always, because I wanted to, and I had to as well. I sensed I'd need to r
efer
to this, that, that it was a way of saying,
I'm like you.
Having Wesley here? He makes me see things about myself I've never seen, and has no idea he's doing it. And some of them I don't like.

   "Ignore me," I say. "I'm not here. Even though I just said I would be. But that was Tom talking."

   Kenny takes over before I start to load the truck with our few possessions for the dusty drive west. "Okay," he says, "you wanted to know how I knew I was gay."

   Wesley pulls out the phone, to get ready, the Hildy Johnson bitten pencil and pocket pad one more thing that's gone forever. "That'd be awesome—" he says, then quickly corrects himself. "Even though I'm not supposed to use that word. Well, that's what Mom says."

   "Why does she say that?" George asks.

   "Because it makes me seem ordinary. And I'm so totally clearly not. Ha." He breathes on his phone, buffs it with his hoodie. "So—"

   "Tell me one thing," says Kenny. "Why do you want to know? You've never shown interest before."

   "I've never been with you long enough."

   "That's bullshit, Wesley."

   "Saturdays," he says. "And like I'm
really
going to say in the Arms and Armor Hall or the Apple Store, 'So, Dad, would you please plow the furrows of your gayness for me and then could we maybe have Thai food?"

   "You're actually interested?" Kenny says.

   "Extremely."

   Kenny turns into a lawyer, which he often does, despite the fact that he already is one. "I'll need to know why. You say this is for a friend."

   "For Theo," says Wesley, "in the interest of clarity."

   "Theo," Kenny says, turning to me as if to say, "See?"

   "Theo," I say, to make it a magic three. And what I recall now, which I keep to myself, is that he came on his own into Ecco last week. He had a backpack and a book, and ordered spaghetti with butter, no cheese. I didn't see him right away as I was in the kitchen, but when I did I asked if he was meeting Wesley and he told me no, he wasn't, but if I had a second could he ask me a question? I said sure, which was when three huge parties showed up, and I had to go be
George! The Musical
, an eleven o'clock number, disguised as a man. When I got back Theo was gone, leaving behind an empty bowl and a twenty, having asked Lenny to tell me he wanted to know how I felt about my life, and it would be fine with him if I wanted to submit my answer by e-mail, or even text if I knew how to do it. I forgot to tell Wesley; so many things happen each night, I'm the audience for a thousand little plays. Or maybe something told me to wait. I'd like to think it was that, but then I'd like to think a lot of things. And I haven't gotten around to it, which might be because I don't know what my answer would be.

   "Remember how Theo was running for tenth grade president?" Wesley says.

   "And he won!" I say, a little too brightly, maybe.

   " Would you mind letting me tell it, George?"

"Don't be rude," says Kenny.

"He wasn't," I say. "He's right."

   "So he made this acceptance speech," Wesley says, "which was really good, maybe a little long. But it had an unusual ending."

   "Yes?" I say. The kid can tell a story. He really can.

   "He came out."

   "Excuse me?" Kenny says.

   "Theo came out. As a gay person."

   "Did he?" Kenny and I say, in our new close harmony.

   "
Ex tempore
."

   "What?" I say.

   "Latin," Wesley says. He loves Latin. I think he won a prize for it. "Sort of like
offhand.
Right, Dad?"

   Kenny loves Latin, too. Wesley told me, when I asked why he was taking it, that it was because of him. "Yes," Kenny says. "Basically."

   "And he won!" I say again, as if I wanted to make sure it was still true. "I think it's great. Sometimes I wish I was gay today. Even though I am gay today. But young." They look at me. "Instead of old. Hopeful! But the big thing is—" A few tears come, and as I don't want Wesley to see them I turn to scrub a patch of counter that doesn't need scrubbing. When I turn back I say, "Right, Kenny?" and as I do it occurs to me that since Wesley's been here not only are we silent on our side of the wall, we're formal and guiltless in how we address each other, too. He is "Kenny," I am "George," as if we'd met at an intermission, introduced by a mutual friend, found each other attractive but not quite attractive enough to do anything about it. Never "honey," or "sweetheart," which doesn't mean I think we should do it in Wesley's presence. But we don't do it in private, either.

   "And Shannon lost," Wesley says. "Traube. With the awful

name." He's beaming now, having gotten what he wanted, nuggets for his friend and the promise of more for later. "So thanks, you guys. From both of us. And so the transition begins."

   "Of what?" Kenny says.

   "The tenth grade government. See you!"

   And that's it. He's gone.

   We each take a breath. We look at each other, feeling the need to say something and hoping the other one goes first. This turns out to be moot, or mute, or whatever the right word is, because Wesley has tiptoed back, smiling even as he scares the shit out of us.

   " After all that," he says, "I forgot my
Grapes of Wrath
!" He scoops it up and is on his way out again when I remember what I promised his mom.

   "You need shoes," I call out after him.

   "I have shoes!"

   " Those aren't shoes."

   "George—"

   "Your mother hates them," I say, going out into the hall.

   "So?"

   "Your grandma's birthday is in two weeks, and she begged me to help. I told her I'd take you. So I will. And you'll like it."

   "Ha," he says, going out and shutting the door behind him.

   "Interesting," Kenny says when I come back.

   "Theo?"

   "The questions, I mean. Just out of the blue like that."

   "But how blue is it, though?"

   "What do you mean?" asks Kenny.

   "He's been with us," I say. "He sees, he hears. He's not like some apple, in a bowl. He's interested in you, Kenny. He wants to know you. That's why he's here. So there's no blue. Not really. And nothing's coming out of it."

   He looks at his phone. "I have twenty-two messages, in the last four minutes."

   "Well," I say, "you'd better start chipping away. People need you."