These Things Happen (4 page)

   George is back now. "Sorry.
Bernadette
." He whispers the word like it's a code name for a spy.

   "Bernadette? Is that good?"

   "Wonderful," he says. "Even in the wrong role."

   "I don't know what that means."

   "You don't need to."

   "Anyway, you were right," I say, "about my being home early."

   "Everything okay?"

   I am often asked that. "Everything's fine."

   The door opens. Laughing gay guys come in, with scarves, looking like a photograph of laughing gay guys with scarves. They laugh harder when they see George, and wave to him. I can almost sense him start to w
hir
, like one of the Japanese robots Theo's dad collects. George, when he needs to, can be Delightful Guy Robot, or Funny Guy Robot; any kind people need. He's not that way upstairs, though, with us. Up there, he's more just George.

   "Hey," he says, "want to eat down here? Armando's got those pork chops you like, with the sage butter—"

   "George—"

   "—From that green pig farm, where the pig signs a release. And there's
burrata,
and those potatoes you like—"

   "Theo won," I say. He looks puzzled. "The election? It was today?"

   "He did?" He high-fives me, which I think he thinks I like; I'm waiting for the right time to tell him I find it vaguely annoying and he doesn't do it right, anyway. "Congratulations, Wes!"

   "Me? Why?"

   "You worked your ass off for him. You don't give yourself credit, you're hard on yourself—"

   "Please don't say what you're going to say next, which is that you don't have a right to say that. Which maybe I don't have a right to say to
you.
It's just that when you
do
say stuff, it's okay with me, really, because it's never about finding me basically extremely disappointing. "

   "Deal," George says.

   "But here's the thing," I say. "I need to talk to you guys, about some stuff."

   "Is it urgent?"

   " Semi-urgent."

   "You sure everything's okay? Should I call your mom, or dad—"

   George always wants to know if he should call my mom or dad. "No. Really. I told you about the Innocence Project, right? Me and Theo are a defense team, and we got assigned these guys the Rosenbergs. I just wanted to get both your feelings about them. Did they, didn't they, America, hysteria."

   "I just hope you don't want me to say smart things. Your dad's the brilliant genius, with opinions. I recite specials."

   "You think he's a brilliant genius?" Everyone says this about him, along with remarks on the extent of his humanity. I'm surprised to hear George say it, though. "Does he think that about you?"

   He laughs. "Come on. Would you?"

   "Y
ou're
so hard on
your
self," I say.

   "Hey," he says, "it's a living. Does your dad know about this?"

   "I left voice mails, and I texted."

   "I'll send dinner up," he says. "So you guys can have privacy." More laughing guys with scarves come in. George laughs, in preparation; that's a trick of his; he says people always like to think you've just heard something funny, and might share it with them. "Pray for me," he says, as he always does, just before he hits the floor.

I stop him, though. "It's not just school I need to talk about."

"Okay."

"And I need you both. If you can."

   Lenny passes, his arms full of little pumpkins, looking confused. "Isn't Ruth Gordon dead?"

   "Of course she is," George says.

   "She's reserved for ten fifteen," says Lenny.

   "You're busy," I say to George. "So—"

   "Hey," he says, not letting me finish, turning his back to all the waving guys in scarves. "I'm there."

   So I climb the stairs, passing 2A, where the Galligan girls live. They never got married and both have osteoporosis, which George says means if they fall they could snap, like chopsticks. For fifty-six years they've been ushers at the Majestic Theatre, around the corner, where they've never missed a show. In 3A is Henry, who writes children's musicals and is into leather. His sister committed suicide, so he's bringing up his niece, Hannah; my dad went to court to make sure it all worked out. And it did, of course; they had my dad. Hannah screams at Henry all the time; she sort of sucks at bonding, apparently.

   And then there's us, on the top floor, the fourth. As I let myself in the first thing I see is that the one light that's on shines on a bowl of grapes, the kind that look dusty but are actually as nature intended. I wonder if this is a not-so-subtle reminder that I have a paper due next week on T
he Grapes of Wrath
, which seems to obsess everyone in my orbit but me. Mr. Frechette is making us read a term's worth of books that will make us better people, as he feels the bitter, sarcastic irony that he often hears from us is something you should only come to in the autumn of your years, to use his words, when you have earned it from your swim in the harsh sea of life.

   I take a grape, the kind I hate; with seeds. As I spit them out the phone rings.

   "That's Dad," I tell the air, and I'm right.

   "Wesley?"

   "Hey, Dad."

   "Wesley?" he says again; people are always saying my name again. "I got your voice mail. Is everything all right?"

   He asks this every day, like he's waiting for something not to be. My mom's the same, unlike Ben and George, who assume things are good unless you bleed or throw up in front of them.

   "Basically."

   " 'Basically'? What does that— shit, I'm in a bad spot. Hello? Wesley?"

   He's sort of shouting now, the way people do in old movies when they're calling long distance. Maybe he thinks shouting makes bad spots good.

   "I'm here, Dad."

   "So when you say, 'basically,' what do you mean?"

   "Well," I say, feeling sort of angry, suddenly, "we're still fighting useless wars, our so-called system is like totally broken, and one in fifty kids in America is homeless." I get like this, sometimes. I can't help it; certain things just
disturb
me. "So, for the sake of argument, one might say, when I say, 'basically,' I mean—"

   "Are you getting shit at school?"

   I laugh, in a fairly weary way. "Ha! Why would I?"

   He doesn't say anything. I don't know if he's in a bad spot again, or thinking. Then I hear him.

   "Because of us. Because we're—"

   He wants to say
gay.
He says
gay
all the time, when he's talking

about a group of people. When it comes to himself, though, he always stops right before the word.

   "I'm okay, Dad."

   "You're sure? Because George just called. He said you need to talk, to both of us?"

   "I do. That is, if you can. Because if you can't—"

   "The thing is—"

   "So you can't, then," I say. " Which is good, Dad. I don't mean it's good. I mean it's not a problem."

   "Oh, God, Wes," he says, "I hate to ask this, but can it wait till morning?"

   What can I say here? It can't? I didn't know how amazing my dad was until I've been here with him and George. It even scares me, a little; how does a person become like that? Was he ever like me, schlepping along, as my stepdad says, foolish and disappointing and finding the world that way, too? In the kitchen I see flowers, vegetables, fruits. George goes to Green Markets. Everyone always knows him. People save things, special little somethings, that they think he'll like. And I think: how does a person become like that? How does a person become
anything?

   "Wes? Are you there?"

   "It can wait, Dad."

   "You're sure?"

   I don't know how, exactly, but something tells me his phone will die before I can answer his question. And it does; I'm occasionally psychic, about phones. He calls back right away, and because I'm fucked up I let it ring through to voice mail. I'll listen later, to what I'm sure will be an interesting explanation, like the one last week where a crisis broke out on the gay block at Rikers Island and my dad spent the night defusing it; George said he pictured prison ers taking hostages and demanding to see Elaine Stritch, this old actress who comes to the restaurant a lot. The phone rings one more time, and once more I just let it.

   And it's okay, because even though I want to keep my promise to Theo I have plenty of homework to do. This means the only tv I'll watch is the scene in The
Wire
where Jimmy and Bunk check out a crime scene and communicate only through the word
fuck
; I watch this daily, and always feel better afterward. Then I'll go down to the restaurant to see if I can help out, somehow. And in the morning I'll talk to him and my dad, unless, of course, my dad's needed somewhere. It would be amazing— as amazing as my dad is— if he isn't.

   "But that's New York," I say out loud, to George's flowers, and cheeses, and butternut squash. "That's New York."

   And then someone knocks at our door.

   "Who is it, please?"

   "No one." It's George.

   "You're not no one."

   "Me, then."

   I open the door. There he is, holding a bread basket covered with a napkin.

   "Focaccia," he says. "It's hot."

   "Focaccia! Ah!" I try Theo's knowing laugh.

   "What's the matter?"

   The laugh needs work, I guess. I should practice. What if Brown likes laughing?

   "It's personal," I say. "Thanks for the focaccia."

   He doesn't go, though. "You reach your dad?"

   "Not yet." Why did I just lie?

   "You good?"

   That's not like George, to forgo a helper verb.

   "I okay," I say, also forgoing the helper verb, because I can be an asshole, sometimes, ha.
More
than sometimes. I know who I am; I have warts, and all.

   "Just checkin'," he says. With no g; unlike him, again. What could that mean? One of my hobbies is close listening; Theo and I both believe in it. How many words are spoken in New York every day, just in Manhattan alone, say? And how many are really
heard
? Seventeen, maybe. On a
good
day.

   "Okay," I say.

   "I'm here."

   "Okay, again."

   "Just so you know."

   He waves. Everyone's waving at me today, like I was someone actually going somewhere. I wave back, then I turn on Jimmy and Bunk.
Fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. T
he bread is warm, delicious, with little bits of prosciutto baked into it. Which is my favorite. Which George knows.

T
his is us, then, at night. Two men, slowly crumbling, minding our business in the bed we flip four times a year to extend its life. I've got my side, Kenny's got his, and from time to time we meet in the middle to do what Men Like That (like us) do in a bed; it's not always hot, not after all this time, but it's reassuring. Mostly, though, we sleep. We like to. We work hard. We need it.

    But I can't sleep like I used to, at least lately, that is. Kenny can; he always can; for him there's awake, or asleep; the sheep he counts gather to make him a soft, warm bed. Mine chatter, and dart, and ask for dressing on the side. Have I been in restaurant work too long, maybe? There's that, all the worrying about whether we can keep it going in our little patch of underground Tuscany, and then there's the fact that, tonight, or this morning, technically, something's above us, on the roof.
Greetings, Prophet!
I played Prior, in
Angels
, one of my last acting gigs; those were the Angel's words when she cracked my ceiling and made her descent. So it's either her up there, or it's a fat pigeon, or it's Wesley, and I'll bet on him. Wesley, stepping lightly, sleepless himself, poor kid. Maybe he just needed some air. He's packed in so tightly with us here, in the bowling alley flanking us that dares to call itself a second bedroom. We're used to it, but his being here has showed us how cramped we really are; New York's a place where, sometimes, you're too easily grateful. Now's the time to look, people say. But we won't, because after a lot of time with someone, in familiar rooms, the things you need— more space, a closet, a drip repaired— become conversation, and if you met the need, what would be left to talk about? We live and work here, or I do, like a Chinaman over his laundry, if you can still call them that. And it's not a laundry but a restaurant, for theater folk and theater lovers. "Will you be going to the theater," I ask at endless tables, "in spite of its having become a grotesque, cynical, commercialized shithole?" Or, later in the evening, I ask, "How was the show? Overrated and disappointing?" With these questions I make my living. If you can call that living. And I have to; it's my life.

   More steps, shuffles, even; I decide Wesley's doing a sand step, that move of Astaire's in something or other. You fling a handful of sand, dance upon it lightly. Has Wesley even heard of Astaire? Why would he have? Ideas of grace change every year, maybe every day, now.
Swing Time
; that's the one; white telephones, whiter people, black patent-leather floors that never show a scuff. I've got the DVD somewhere, or I used to. I'll look. Maybe he'll like it, as he seems to like most of what I show him. I'd like to see it again, anyway.

   And more steps now, faster. I've heard him on the roof many times recently, and have never said anything about it; I try not to ask too many questions. But this is the latest he's been up there, at least as far as I know. Shouldn't he be asleep? Well, no; he should be on the roof, because that's where he is. But why? He came home last night, wanted to talk to us and actually asked to do so. So something must be up. And then Kenny couldn't get home; it was Election Day, which would be his Christmas if he was a store, this talk show and that wanting him to come on and straight-actingly reassure their audience that the Gays will have rights, all right, but don't worry, we're not talking tomorrow (his words, not mine). And as I'm resident equipment charger, I see the four hundred ten messages and e-mails he got yesterday morning alone; I'm surprised his phone doesn't blow up in his hand. He needs a new one. We all need new somethings. Wesley needs shoes, I need the American theater to thrive, so those who attend it will want focaccia and
fegato
after the show and I can make a buck for the first time in too long. Needs, needs, needs. I couldn't sit down with Wesley alone last night; it wouldn't have been right. He needed Kenny.