These Things Happen (8 page)

   Kenny's cell phone rings, from our end of the hall; Wesley and I both hear him answer it. Here he comes to save the day. Again.

   "He's just going to take this one." I hope I'm right; I beam that wish down the hallway. "And then I know he's really eager to talk to you."

   "Dad's incredible," Wesley says.

   "He is."

   "I could never be like him."

   "It might be too early to tell."

   "Not for me," he says, with a little snort. " Trust me: I know myself."

   I decide to jump right into it. "You were up on the roof last night," I say. "Pretty late, too." I don't mention the dozen other times I've heard him; I don't want to scare him away.

   "Did I wake you guys?"

   "I was up, anyway."

   "Because if I did—"

   "But you didn't." I turn the oven to low, put the waffles on a plate, get them in. "And you made a sandwich. Don't deny it. I sense these things."

   He's impressed. "That's amazing. I tried to be really quiet."

   "I believe it was tuna, sir!" I cry, evidence gathered, in my role as

houseboy to that before-their-time gay couple Henry Higgins and Sherlock Holmes. "And you used that hazelnut
pane rustico—"

   "You're good, George."

   I fixate on the sandwich; for some reason I always feel it's my job to fill in people on new elements for old standards, that unexpected something that can make it all seem fresh. "Next time, chop an apple! Fold it in with a little curry powder and a few slivered almonds. I know it sounds crazy."

   He doesn't say if he agrees. "And I watched this movie about nuns," he says. I don't tell him that I already know that; I've learned that about kids; never let them know you already know something; let them believe they've brought it to you. "And I guess about lepers, too. And there was this one— nun, I mean, not leper— who goes to Africa to work with this doctor? And she falls in love with him, possibly. But you can't know. You can't be sure. Which was sort of amazing, to see this story that's all about something you can't be sure of. And it made me keep watching, to see what would happen."

   "So what does?" I know, of course, but I want to hear what he says; it's like seeing it for the first time.

   "I don't think even she knows, really. She just does what's needed. She's
there
, I guess. If that makes any sense."

   This is what I've learned he always asks, and always when he's making the
most
sense. "It does," I say. "Is that it?"

   "No. I wanted to find out, and it was a really long movie. At the end, she decides where God needs her most is back in the world, doing worldly stuff. I don't mean like going to plays, or buying pocketbooks, or anything. But being
there
again. In the world. Do you know that movie, George?"

"No," I say, obeying my own principle.

   Which is where he leaves it. "So Dad didn't hear me," he says. "Because if he did, and I woke him, then he'd be justifiably pissed. Right?"

   "Don't worry," I say. "He slept. He's a very good sleeper."

   "You did tell him I needed to talk, right?"

   I sense I might be in the way. " Maybe you guys should be alone. I'm on my way to the Green Market, anyway. It's the twilight of the chanterelles."

   "What are those?"

   "Mushrooms. Special ones."

   "Why are they special?"

   God, this kid asks questions. Recent ones, picked up from the general surrounding yammer: What is arborio rice? What makes something Milanese? What is a Jule Styne overture? I don't remember, when I was his age, asking questions like that. But, of course, I had secrets; my questions couldn't be asked— much less answered— at the Terrace Drive breakfast table. "Well," I say, vamping, "one bite— and you fall in love with the first person you see."

   He laughs, but somehow his face suggests he wishes it could be true, that it could be as easy as chanterelles. I don't think he's been in love; I flatter myself I'd be able to tell, but who knows? "Be serious," he says.

   "It's true. And it's guaranteed for a year. Less if you meet online."

   He takes this in with his usual urgent seriousness; he hasn't yet realized that I'm not worth listening to. "But then the
Observed
Guy," he says, "or Lady, or whatever the case might be, would have to eat the mushroom, too. Right? Simultaneously, more or less. Or it wouldn't be fair, and would be unlikely, one might say."

   And now, suddenly, Kenny enters. I was an actor, so people in my life don't come in; they
enter.
"One might say what?"

   "You're not on the phone," says Wesley.

   "I turned it off !" he says. "The gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgendered can, for the next twelve minutes, go fuck themselves." He realizes there is a child in the room. "Whoops. Sorry."

   "Like I'm really shocked," Wesley says. "I mean, I live with two gay guys, right?"

   Neither of us answers right away. I go first, twisting, leering, becoming Fagin, whom I played at Camp White Way, long ago. "As long as you keep picking pockets, my dear," I say, "you have a place with us." I turn to Kenny. "Right, Nancy?"

   "What?" says Kenny.

   "Who?" Wesley asks.

   "Something smells good," Kenny says.

   "Waffles. Wesley made them."

   "They suck," Wesley says.

   "What's that supposed to mean?" I say.

   "What it usually means. They're not good."

   "Don't be rude," Kenny tells him.

   This, somehow, sets Wesley off. He flushes; he has English skin, like Nigel, my imaginary nephew; every feeling blooms. "I'm not rude!" he says. "It's not rude if it's true, is it?
It's just true
!"

   "You haven't even tasted them!" I say.

   "Should I wear my blue tie with this shirt?" Kenny says to me.

   "Sure. That'd be fine."

   "Have you seen it?"

   "Did you even look?"

   "I just got off the phone with the T
imes
, George."

   "I keep telling them," I say, "stop calling! We don't want to subscribe. I will get your tie. This one last time."

   I start out of the kitchen, but Kenny stops me.

   "I'll get it," he says.

   "I want to!" says Wesley, and I think of a kid again, one of those small ones in elevators who announce
I wanna do it
when it's time to push the button. He dashes out and is right back, holding the tie out to his dad. But Kenny doesn't take it right away, as he sees Wesley squint at him.

   "What?" Kenny asks.

   "Blood!"

   "Pardon me?"

   Wesley takes a step in Kenny's direction. "On your chin, Dad," he says. "You always cut yourself in the same place."

   Kenny feels for the cut and the crusting blood, but just misses it. Wesley comes closer, and is about to touch the spot when Kenny turns away. For a moment I lift out of myself and see this happen again in sections, in slow motion, as acts of a tiny play. Then it freezes, as in that kid's game I used to love; early theater, I guess, bodies doing what they're told. I decide it's my job to unfreeze us, so I clap my hands and they turn to me, reanimated.

   "Well!" I say, hoping something will come to me. Something does. I nod to Kenny. " Lucky you're not a Romanov, huh?"

   "A what?" Wesley asks.

   "Russian," I vamp. "The royal family. They were bleeders, or the kid was. They got shot in a basement. One survived. I! Anastasia." I can't resist throwing in a moment of Ingrid Bergman, from the movie, one of my all-time favorites; I'm a sucker for any story that ends on a note of maybe, or maybe not. I cough, as Bergman does. "Grandmama, you are so cruel." I put a napkin on my head, and cough again.

   "What?" Wesley says.

   Now, I'm hardly the queeniest of queens, and I know you could read that statement as, in the words of my dead friend James from Texas, " self-loathin'." But somehow this kid's being here brings out, from time to time, the Norma Desmond in me, the Dolly Levi, the clamoring Golden Girls of my soul. Maybe it's just the pleasure of referring to something and having someone not know what it is. That's a New York problem; everyone here always knows what you're talking about. They've heard the joke, tried the recipe. It gets exhausting, drowning at the same time you're running in place.

   Kenny's cell phone rings.

   "I thought you turned it off," I say.

   "I'm not totally sure how to do that. Just let it ring."

   So we do. But we don't do anything else, either, as each of us knows it will ring again in a moment. Which it does.

   "You should get that, Dad."

   "That's what they invented voice mail for," says Kenny.

   "It's also why they invented hammers," I say. "Because I'm going to smash that thing. Because this place is too small for you, me, and the entire gay and bi-curious population of the whole world, all of whom have your cell number."

   The ringing stops, then starts again.

   " Really," Kenny says, "it'll go right to—"

   Wesley cuts in, which I've never seen him do before; the new zit I swore I didn't notice seems to glow, like a third eye, seeing what's usually kept secret. "Dad?" he says.
"Do what you need to do. Just do
it, please, I'm proud of you, Dad. People need you."

   Kenny doesn't say anything; he just obeys, and goes off down the hall. It's not easy, this, being with someone who always, always needs no excuse.

   Wesley and I both look down the hallway to where Kenny, pacing, passes in and out of sight with what looks like, from here, a pork chop pressed to his ear. Have we lost him again? We turn to each other, knowing we have to do something.

   He steps up. "So, George?" he says. " Could I maybe ask you a question?"

   Again, I have to be careful not to laugh; this is how he's posed questions for as long as I can remember, from the time Kenny first brought him to Ecco, years ago. "Sure," I say.

   "Have you ever really thought about restaurants?"

   "Are you kidding?" I say. "All the time! And this one, especially, and how it's going to survive."

   "That's not what I mean, though," he says. "I mean what they really are. Like secretly, in their essence. Would you like me to tell you?"

   "Shoot," I say, for maybe the second time in my life. As Wesley circles, getting ready to let me in on what he knows, I take the waffles from the warming oven, cut them into tiny pieces, and dump them into a bowl. He scoops out a handful and knocks them back, like popcorn.

   He shrugs, turtles in. "If it's boring, just tell me to stop."

   "I will."

   "Well," he starts, "Okay. So . . . okay. So . . ." This, too, is what he used to say as a kid, which might have something to do with parents who speak in perfect blocks of text. "So Theo read this article? I forget from where, it doesn't matter, the
New York
something. And it made me think of you."

   "Okay," I say. And I feel a little panicked, sense the Shame Buzzards on alert; this happens, sometimes, when I'm turned to people— people who like me!—and find myself facing a sea of smiles. It never happened with audiences, when I was an actor and someone else. But it does in life, like now. "What was it about?"

   "Restaurants!" He flushes again,
à l'anglaise.
"Not about good ones or bad ones or ones with rats. But what the
word
means. Literally, that is."

   Kenny's phone rings. Wesley turns his head, to the end of the hall and his father, but I want to bring him back; maybe I can give him some of the help he needs. "And that would be?" I say.

   He turns back, bangs the table, and smiles. "Soup!"

   "You mean like
pasta e fagioli
?
Ribollita
?" My taste buds bloom, dance, sing. " P
appa el Pomodoro
?"

   "What?"

   He knows the soups, I know, but he seems thrown. I draw from this another lesson for today, about kids: When they're trying to teach you something, don't cut in until they're done.

   "Sorry," I say. "Tell me more."

   "The point is," he says, "that there isn't like a specific soup, per se? I would describe it as more along the lines of a
soup concept.
" He pops some waffle bits, to fuel him with the energy to keep sounding more like a lawyer than his father ever does. "That concept being—" He looks to me, as if I actually knew anything other than the birth name of Betty Comden and the date of her death (
Betty
Cohen,
November 23, 2006
). "Okay, then," he says. "Safe soup." He sits, drums his fingers. "Feel free to ask questions."

   But I just echo; I rarely ask. "Safe soup."

   "Yes!" he says, powered to his feet again, opening his hands the way Kenny says I do with mine, as if I might be about to sing. "Because like in the 1700s, in France? These places started to open where a person could order some soup— and please don't list varieties— and feel safe! Okay?"

   I am, again, the echo man. "Safe. Okay."

   "Because soup back then was perilous," he goes on. "And that's because life was, right?"

   I hear Kenny laugh, which Wesley hears, too. Again, we both look down the hall; this time Kenny sees us, lifting a finger that could mean— what?—one second. One hour. One day. I juggle three blood oranges (a skill, on my résumé, along with tap-dancing and risotto-making) and toss them to Wesley, one by one, to bring him back to here, now. "Perilous," I say, to prompt him.

   "Right," he says. "And not that it's not perilous now?" We both laugh, we New Yorkers, filling the room with rue, phantom towers climbing and crumbling in the space between us. "But it was different, then. And thinking about all of that— restaurants, and soup, and safety— made me see something." He goes to the window, looks down to the street with its steady westward flow. "Names," he says quietly. "It made me think about the names for things." As he turns back, to look at me, I see his father in his face, the planes in the process of shifting, daily, into a kind of seriousness that always makes me feel, with my show posters and original cast albums, as light as the fuzz a dog tears from the heart of a new toy. "This probably won't make any sense—"