These Things Happen (16 page)

   This is mine, though. I don't let go. "You wound up in an emergency room. With twelve stitches."

   "Ten. And what I got in was a fi
ght
. There's a difference. You probably don't know about stuff like that."

   He's said this with a condescension that is, in its way, protective and even sweet. Maybe this is too much right now; Ben thought it might be. Tomorrow the weekend begins, and we'll have him, anyway. "You're right," I say. "I'm sorry."

   "You're an
editor.
You should choose your words more carefully."

   "
Hey
," George says quietly, but Wesley hears him and, as if enchanted, turns from me to him. "Don't do that."

   "But she—"

   George keeps his voice low. Am I hearing what I think I am? "Don't talk to your mother that way," he says.

   Wesley whips his head back to me, shocked and grieved by the world's unfairness, the level at which he is misunderstood. "But when a person says a thing, and it's totally
not
what the thing is—"

   There are a few people at the bar, but we don't seem to interest them. They are fixed, like everyone, on their phones and opinions.

   "Don't talk to your mother that way."

"Sorry," Wesley says to him.

"Don't tell
me
."

"I'm. Sorry. Mom."

   He doesn't wait for me to acknowledge this. He turns to Kenny, stops slumping, sits up straight in his chair. Kenny matches him. He waits for Wesley to speak. He doesn't, and we don't.

   "Yes?" Kenny says.

   This is my son; this was my husband. I haven't been between them for many years.

   "Nothing," Wesley says; at last, I suppose. "Sorry."

   Ben brings us back, with a nod to me. "Lo. You were about to say something about what comes next."

   It's as if all the interruptions haven't happened. I have new energy, know just where I was— in midsentence, even— and where I want to be. "—that when you made this change we all thought it was a good idea, for you and your father. You could get to know each other much better than you ever could at restaurants, or movies, or— counting dinosaur bones." I have been delightful, on purpose, as George is. But it goes unmarked. "And it has been a good thing for these past two months." Wesley, I notice, still has his eyes on Kenny. "You're doing well in school. We miss you, of course—"

   "Can I get anyone more bruschetta?" He's our host, suddenly, rather than our problem. "There's
checca
, and a puree of white beans,
con rosmarino.
" In spite of the
Raging Bull
face he is elegant and gracious, two qualities I've never seen in him before. He reminds me of someone. Who? Yes. George. "We've also got some—"

   "Let George take care of that," I say. George semaphores to Lenny, saying God knows what.

   "Thanks," I say. "And it has been good, as I was saying—"

   "What did you think, Dad?"

"I think you should let your mother make her point."

"But that's not an answer."

I try to help. "He thought it was—"

Wesley raises a hand to stop me. "Let him tell me, Mom!"

"All right," Kenny says. "I agreed with her."

"That it would be good?"

"I thought it would be fine."

"Wow. Hyperbolic."

   Kenny, poised to explain, looks to all of us. "It's a New York apartment. It's a
box
."

   "But that
is
New York!" George says. I sense he may have nothing beyond that, although he never loses the Broadway smile. " Boxes on
boxes.
Because when you're here, you— give up space. Right? For house seats . . . in the Theater of Life!"

   "You should write," Ben says.

   "But things have changed," I say, bringing us back. " Given what's happened."

   Wesley echoes me. " Given what's happened."

   "We need to decide whether your living here, and not with us, is the best thing for you right now." I'm girded, ready for him to come at me, but his focus is still on Kenny.

   "Dad?"

   "Your mother's right," he says. "We need to deal with this."

   "T
his
being
me.
Or the
concept
or
perception
of me. Phenomenologically. In the interests of clarity."

   "That's an interesting discussion for later," I say. "When we settle this—"

   "Who's 'we,' Mom?" For someone held for observation less than twenty-four hours ago, he's quick on his feet. "Who's 'we'?"

   "All of us. We all want what's best for you."

"But what do
you
want, Dad?"

"You heard your mother, I think."

"I mean
you. Specifically.
Dad."

"Why would that matter? This isn't about me."

   "Don't you want anything other than 'what's best for me'? Everybody wants
something
, Dad. Just tell me one thing."

   "I'm not going to."

   "Why?"

   "This isn't
my
problem, unless I'm seriously mistaken."

   "But, Dad? I just have to ask you one serious personal question," he says. "If that's okay with you?"

   He seems to have calmed down. He even smiles a little, which makes his face look worse. But the smile has its effect. We're all lightbulbs now, glowing with encouragement; you could read by us.

   "That's why we're here," Kenny says. "And why
I'm
here."

   "Why do you let people call you K
enny
?"

   "It's my name," Kenny says. He turns to us. "Isn't it?"

   We agree, too enthusiastically, but I sense it's too late; Wesley flushes and seems almost, slightly, to ascend. "But it's not."

   The sour smell of grievance, like the insides of sneakers, diffuses through the room. I have to do something, and feel that even more strongly as early diners come in and Lenny, stepping in for George, moves to welcome them. "Wesley—"

   But he's made me invisible; I don't count. "K
enny
," he announces, "is a
boy's
name. Not a man's. He's a boy in a hood on
South Park
who keeps getting killed and who never dies. He's paper, all cut up—"

   "Hey, Wes," Ben says, trying to help. But Wesley is up again, panting, as Kenny looks down, tightens his lips, perceptibly shakes his head to say, in steps:
No. I won't do this. Don't look to me for this
. I know those steps; each of them.

   But Wesley doesn't. "Why, Dad?"

   It's clear Kenny isn't going to answer. "All right," I say, although I don't know where to go next. I tell authors,
Write through it; write any
thing when you don't know
. Does that apply to sons? "You're fifteen." That's a start. His mouth opens in protest, but I press on. "A
mature
fifteen, in many ways. But that still doesn't make you sixteen—"

   He pounces. " Which means—?"

   "That someone needs to know—"

   " Needs to know what?"

   "Some responsible, concerned
adult
needs to know where you are at all times."

   "People know!"

   "And they need to know w
hat
you're doing, too."

   "They also know that!"

   "And just who, exactly,
specifically
, you're doing it with." I realize, again, that I'm doing all the heavy lifting. "Right, Kenny?"

   "Lola—"

   "Just let us know you fundamentally agree, so we know you're here."

   "You know I do. More than fundamentally."

   The door opens to let in four men, ageless, laughing, all in scarves that seem, even inside, to be blown by an ideal wind. One of them waves to George, but George doesn't wave back.

   "Wesley?" I say. "Look at me." He does. I'm surprised. "How well do you know this Theo?" He laughs. "Is that an amusing question?"

   "T
his T
heo? You just like throw in the adjective
this
?"

Is
this
an adjective? "Just answer the question."

"He doesn't need adjectives, Mom. He's just a noun. He's T
heo
."

"I know who he is. My point is—"

   "And you personally said— I heard you— that you think he's awesome."

   "I'd never have said that."

   "But you did."

   "George Eliot is awesome." Again, I'm the person I'd condemn if I heard her say what I'm saying. "Iris
Murdoch.
Rebecca W
est."

   "Who?"

   " Women from the sisterhood," Ben says.

   "Theo Rosen is—" I can't find what I want to say right away, which, of course, Wesley smells.

   "Well? If he's not awesome, he must be something else," Wesley says. "You're great with words; you use them all day and help people win things. So he's—"

   I'm trapped. "Creative."

   "In other words," Wesley says, "gay."

   "I didn't say that."

   "You don't have to. Because he is. Like Dad, and like George. And like those Scarf Guys at that table. Not to racially profile, or anything."

   I shudder, in an almost enjoyable way, as I feel words flow through me, startling and cool. "You used to have so many friends. But this whole past year all we hear is Theo this, Theo that—"

   "She's right," says Kenny.

   " Thank you," I say.

   "What ever happened to that kid—? You know the one I mean. The amazing soccer player. Jake somebody?" Kenny turns to George. "Does that sound right?"

   "Dad? All my friends are named Jake. Unless they're named Max. Except, of course, for Theo and me. But I'm not my friend."

   "Jake Blau," I say. "What ever happened to him?"

   "How would I know?" he says, about someone he sees every day.

   "You're a great soccer player, too, right?" Kenny says. "That's how."

   Wesley laughs. "Oh, no, I'm not."

   "You are," Kenny and I both say.

   "I hate sports."

   "You don't," I say. "You're exquisitely coordinated."

   " 'Exquisitely'?"

   "You ski, you play tennis, you do track."

   "You
run
track, Mom. And you don't mean Jake Blau. You mean Jake Greenspan. Who got bitten by a tick, in Quogue, who's near death."

   "Oh, my God," I say, "how awful. I didn't know that. I should call his mother."

   "It might not be so awful," Wesley says. "It might help at Yale. Death is a plus at Yale."

   "Wesley!"

   "We hear stuff like that every
minute.
Like you open your locker, a voice says,
Be interesting! Be varied!
And I talk about Theo because he actually
is.
He's like a
vid
, about everything there is in life. Not so he could say,
I'm avid
, on applications but because he actually is. It's
who
he is. And it's how I'd like to be, and when we hang out I even am, a little. And you don't need to say any supportive stuff, or anything. I
have
self-esteem." He downs a glass of water, another, then a third, without even seeming to breathe.

   I don't know what to say. "All right, then."

   "So can I please go?"

   I sense he's not the only one who wants that. How can I do this to him after what he's been through? But I have to. No one else will. "Does Theo come by after school?" I ask.

   He looks straight at me, for the first time, and moves closer, too. As he does I see him in his crib, looking up at me while I looked down to him; how we'd do that for minutes at a time, how it seemed as if that could be all you needed in life. "How?" he says. "School's like
eternal
, there's no
delineations
, like when you were young."

   And he's right. He's busier than I am, as they all are, because we've seen to that. It's only to keep them safe, and these things happen, anyway. "But that's not what I mean."

   "Oh, I know that," he says gently, with what almost seems like tenderness. "What you mean is do we spend a lot of time together."

   "Well?"

   "In the afternoons. We do the same things, because we're basically the same person."

   
But you're not gay
, I want to say, and don't. The scarved men laugh, at something Lenny, hovering, says to them. But they seem far away. "Do you see each other at night?"

   "Lola—" Kenny says.

   "Does he come for dinner, say?"

   Wesley turns to George, as if they'd agreed upon an answer ahead of time. "I think he was there like a few weeks ago?"

   "So it was the four of you?" I say.

   "Just me and Theo," he says.

   "Ah."

   "And George."

   
And George.
My spell with Wesley breaks as I call on Kenny. "You weren't there," I say.

"For one night," Kenny says.

"All right."

He offers more. "I was in Pittsburgh. One night."

   "I wish I'd known," Ben says. "My Aunt Celia lives there. She's ninety-six, and blind. But she still makes her famous fl
anken.
In the dark."

   "It was one night."

   "You keep saying that," I say. "What were you doing there?"

   "Lo, it was nothing."

   "It wasn't," George says. "He was Man of the Year for the Pennsylvania-Massachusetts Harvey Milk Society."

   "That's not nothing," Wesley says. "You should be proud of that, Dad."

   I'm moved by what Wesley has said, even as I wonder how often Kenny is gone; the point of this downtown sabbatical was for Wesley to have time with Kenny, and Kenny's not there? "So you and Theo were alone, then," I say to Wesley. "Without supervision."