Part 23 (1/2)

”It's a cultural thing,” George says. ”It's deep.”

For a moment, the comment stings, as if it's meant to be yet another reminder of this essential difference between them, a gap Robin wonders if he is even allowed to cross. But the sensation of George's hand on his head, that comfort offered just moments again, is still with him, and he thinks, Wait Wait. Clarity takes hold: He's not trying to push you away. He's trying draw you in. To get you to see what you haven't seen before, but still might.

”It's hard to see ourselves from other people's eyes,” Robin says, not sure this is exactly what he wants to say, trying to make the words work for him. ”I mean, we want to see everything the way we already see it.”

”Yeah,” George agrees. ”Yeah, that's part of the problem. But that's why we keep our friends around, right? To call us on our s.h.i.+t?”

”Or something,” Robin says.

”Or something.”

Driving all the way back to Philly tonight would take at least until midnight. The very thought is exhausting: hours and hours of dealing with Sunday traffic, reversing the path they've been on all day. So tonight, he and George will likely stay at their separate homes in Green-lawn, with their very different families, like they were still freshmen in high school, 1978 all over again. He thinks with some embarra.s.sment of the condoms and lube he packed; in the midst of the rush to get out the door and rescue his sister, he found time to prepare for more s.e.x with George. As if there was anywhere for them to be together. Was he imagining that they'd check into a hotel room?

Ruby went to a hotel with Chris. She must have, though she didn't actually say so. But what else would you do if you wanted to be together? Where else could you find enough privacy?

He looks again at her sleeping face, and has a moment, as he did earlier with George, where he sees someone between two incarnations, an old and a new self. And then his mind makes another leap and he and Ruby are young again, two little blond kids playing a game of hide-and-seek in the backyard. He preferred this game to other neighborhood games, the ones requiring b.a.l.l.s that he would inevitably bobble and drop or swing at and miss. Running and hiding he could do. There was something so exciting about waiting quietly while the person who was ”it” went searching; you wanted to peek and see if he was near, but it was better not to risk exposure, to be patient and wait it out. On this one day, a boy from down the street named Jimmy was ”it” the other kids all scattered, but Ruby hovered at Robin's side. ”Go away,” he told her. ”Find your own place.” But she followed him behind the garage, and he was so aware of her on his tail that he didn't see Jimmy sneak around from the other side, and then she was in his way when he tried to escape. Jimmy tagged him. Robin was so mad at Ruby that when he finished counting to ten, he went straight for her. He chased her down at full speed, and when he reached her, he crowed, ”Now you're you're it,” and smacked her shoulder so hard she stumbled to the gra.s.s. On the spot, she quit the game and walked away. ”Don't be a baby,” he shouted after her. ”I'm not a baby,” she said, with a coolness that stunned him. ”You're a jerk.” it,” and smacked her shoulder so hard she stumbled to the gra.s.s. On the spot, she quit the game and walked away. ”Don't be a baby,” he shouted after her. ”I'm not a baby,” she said, with a coolness that stunned him. ”You're a jerk.”

It made an impression, the word ”jerk” like a sudden jolt, an impact. The jerk is the one who upsets things, the one heedless of other people's feelings. He carried her admonishment around as warning, the danger of being selfish, of being petty, even vengeful. When his mother had smoked cigarettes in the car despite the fact that it was making Ruby sick, he understood that she she was being a jerk. Last night, Peter had been a jerk, but Robin had only made it worse by exploding. Earlier in the car, his own defensiveness with George caused him to act like a jerk again. Had he done it again with Ruby, by yanking her away from a boy she seemed to feel something for? Or have the roles reversed, and is Ruby, for a change, the one who has selfishly knocked everything out of place? was being a jerk. Last night, Peter had been a jerk, but Robin had only made it worse by exploding. Earlier in the car, his own defensiveness with George caused him to act like a jerk again. Had he done it again with Ruby, by yanking her away from a boy she seemed to feel something for? Or have the roles reversed, and is Ruby, for a change, the one who has selfishly knocked everything out of place?

Traffic clogs and opens up, clogs and opens up, all along the drive northward, as the sh.o.r.e roads empty onto the Garden State Parkway. As highways go, it's not a bad one to be stuck on. Rolling green slopes line either side, and a wide gra.s.sy median separates north and southbound lanes. There are wooden guardrails instead of metal and no billboards. Still, New Jersey drivers are infamous for a reason, and Robin tenses up as cars s.h.i.+ft across multiple lanes without warning. George's driving is as bad as anyone's. The long day seems to be wearing on him, and he's become impatient, heavy on both the brake and the gas, taken to muttering, and sometimes shouting, ”a.s.shole” and ”idiot.” There's a truly scary moment when a car on the shoulder makes a move back onto the road, jutting quickly in front of them. George speeds up, even though the other guy is clearly about to merge, and lands his fist on the horn as he swerves. Robin gets thrown from side to side, grasping for equilibrium. George says, ”Sorry,” but it sounds more like a challenge than an apology.

From behind him, Ruby stirs.

”I don't feel good,” she says. ”Can we pull over?”

”Are you going to be sick?”

”I need some air.”

”There's a place coming up,” George says, reading the sign for the Cheesequake Service Area.

Robin sings, ”Cheesequake, hit the brakes, let's go eat a piece of cake.” The lyrics burst forth unbidden, a little tune invented during a family vacation, way back when. He seems to remember that his father, who is more p.r.o.ne to corniness than his mother, was the one who made it up, but he's not entirely sure. The song is a mystery, like the word Cheesequake itself (which could be derived from some Indian language, butchered by white people, or could also be nonsense). He looks back at Ruby to see if she's remembered this song, too, but she doesn't seem to be paying attention. She's looking more than a little green.

As soon as George moves them into a parking spot, Ruby bounds out of the car toward the restrooms.

Inside, a crowd lines up for fast food; another group mills around at a little gift counter, perusing b.u.mper stickers and T-s.h.i.+rts with the slogan NEW JERSEY AND YOU NEW JERSEY AND YOU, PERFECT TOGETHER PERFECT TOGETHER.

Robin looks through the racks, hoping to find a Father's Day card. No luck. So he buys an oversized postcard with a picture of the Cheesequake Service Area. On the back, he writes, ”Dad, Here's a trip down memory lane for Father's Day. Love, your prodigal children.”

Next stop is the men's room. Along a wall of urinals, a couple old men are s.p.a.ced intermittently; a father in a baseball cap keeps an eye on his young son at the kid-sized p.i.s.ser. Robin heads for the farthest one. George takes the spot next to him.

He can hear their streams. .h.i.t the porcelain at the exact same time, which secretly pleases him. Sometimes, p.i.s.sing in public, he becomes inexplicably pee-shy, and no matter how bad he has to go, it takes forever to start up. But since moving in with George, this hasn't been a problem. They're sometimes in the bathroom at the same time, one of them peeing while the other brushes his teeth, and though it's not something they've bothered to talk about, Robin figures George probably takes the same kind of comfort in this brotherly intimacy as he does. Brotherly, because it reminds him of Jackson. Some of his earliest memories are of the two of them ”crossing streams” into the bowl in the upstairs bathroom, the one with the fuzzy gold bathmat always bunched up against the tub, and talking with playful fascination about arcs and splashes, the varying smells and colors. It was their game, regular and unremarkable, and no one knew about it. How long would it have continued, if Jackson had lived? Or would having a gay brother have driven Jackson away from anything resembling physical closeness?

George is the nearest thing to a brother in his life now. And maybe that's what's so confusing about the line they stepped over last night. You put people into compartments, but they break out of them, and then what? Can you seal yourself back in, or are you forever changed?

At this very moment he can glimpse George's c.o.c.k as George shakes off, which should be no big deal but after last night seems tinged with taboo. George senses it, too, if the quick eye contact he makes with Robin is any indication.

Down the wall, father and son have departed, and one by one the old men leave; and then it's only the two of them inside the cavernous, tiled room. Now the eye contact is not so subtle. Their glances drift across each other, mischievous, expectant.

George turns sideways. He thrusts his pelvis out. He slaps his c.o.c.k onto Robin's, saying, ”Swordfight.”

Robin's mouth drops open, giddy with the audacity of it.

George does it again. Slap, slap, slap. And then he steps closer, lingering, more gentle. Rub, slide, rub.

But that's all. There's the squeal of a door hinge, the sound of entering footsteps. Robin moves back to his urinal and s.h.i.+elds his crotch. His heartbeat quickens in the rush of nearly being caught.

George flushes. ”Meet you outside.”

Robin spots him near the curb, standing in profile studying an oversized map under gla.s.s. The sun hits him softly from behind, hugs the solidity of his neck, highlights the texture of the twists in his hair. There's the undeniably beautiful way the arch of his lower back becomes the curve of his muscular a.s.s.

George finally sees him and waves him over. ”I had you speechless in there,” he says through a smile.

”Definitely.”

”Is something wrong?” George asks. ”You've got some look in your eyes.”

”I guess I'm just thinking about last night.”

”Is that a good thing?”

Robin nods. Speechless again.

George glances around. There's no one in close range, but people and cars are coming and going every which way. ”f.u.c.k. This is crazy! We've created a problem.” He looks down at his pants, where Robin can see that the problem problem isn't easily concealed. ”You need to walk away and let me think about something else.” isn't easily concealed. ”You need to walk away and let me think about something else.”

”Gotcha.” Robin steps back, scans the parking lot, remembers where they are, what they're in the midst of. ”I'll go find my sister. Have you seen her?”

George shakes his head. ”Actually, for a minute I forgot all about her.”

She hasn't eaten meat in years, but impulsively, guiltily she orders a bacon cheeseburger and devours its fatty, salty bulk in record time.

While she sucks a Cherry c.o.ke through a straw, all the way down to the ice, she hurries to the pay phone and dials the Island Beach Motor Lodge. The old guy at the desk puts her through to the room.

The phone rings and rings. Eventually he comes back on the line and states the obvious, ”No answer.”

”Did you see him come in? The guy I was with last night?”

”What's a'matter, honey, lost your husband husband already?” already?”

”I'm not your honey, honey,” she snaps. ”That's totally s.e.xist.”

”Oh, I got a real women's libber here,” he says.

”How about I call the Better Business Bureau on you?”

He begins an answer, but she hangs up without hearing the rest of it. And immediately she's wis.h.i.+ng she'd ignored his condescension. Her anger today is an undertow. She's barely aware of it until it's pulling her in deep.