Part 25 (1/2)

George enters the yard and says, ”I'm heading over to my mom's.” He makes his hand into a gun and shoots himself in the temple.

”Save a bullet for me,” Robin says.

”So, are you staying overnight?”

”Let's see how it goes. Are you?”

”Let's see how it goes.”

Robin walks him to the street. After all this, it seems impossible that they're parting company. It feels like the end of a date, where you've entertained the idea of continuing into the night but instead, through circ.u.mstance or sensibility, have decided to hold off. He flips backward through the day: the look in George's eyes at the Parkway rest stop when he called ”swordfight” the sweat on his brow after he broke up the scuffle at Alice's house; the hurt and anger on his face when they were tailed by a cop and Robin told him he was being too sensitive. At last he lands on the one moment that is tugging at his insides, the one that makes what should be a nonevent, this good-bye-for-the-night between best friends, something more tumultuous. It was a moment in the Cadillac, just after listening to Al Green, when George said, ”I predict you're going to be over Peter really soon,” a prediction which now seems to have come true, because he is, isn't he? Over Peter: over the hope of reunion, maybe even over the desire for it, no matter what thoughts just flashed through his mind in the kitchen. George knew it right away; he might have known also who would replace Peter in his imagination: George himself. That was the unspoken part. Peter's exit cleared the way, at last, for something to emerge between them that had never before had the room to grow.

But he can't say anything like this to George. You can't fall for your best friend. Everyone knows that. So they hug, and Robin thanks him, ”for everything,” and says, in a grand flourish of understatement, ”Well, we got through the day.”

George says, ”It's not over yet.”

Back in the kitchen, Robin realizes how hungry he is. He asks his mother, ”Did you bring that paella and gazpacho you were talking about?”

”It's at home. I'm saving it for someone who'll appreciate it.”

”So you're punis.h.i.+ng Ruby for not showing up?”

She smiles. ”I'm not that that petty. No, I decided I'd offer it to the young man who lives upstairs. Do you remember him? Donovan?” petty. No, I decided I'd offer it to the young man who lives upstairs. Do you remember him? Donovan?”

He nods. ”The gay guy.”

”Well, I wouldn't want to make a.s.sumptions.”

”Pretty safe bet, Dorothy.”

There's an awkward silence, and then they both try to say something at once. He prompts her to go first.

”Are you being careful, Robin?”

And of course he knows what she means, and why she brought this up right now, in the context of their neighbor who is not well. But the last thing he wants to do is talk with his mother about the dangers of his s.e.x life.

”Nothing to worry about,” he says.

”Of course there's something to worry about. You're aware of what's going on among h.o.m.os.e.xuals.”

”Don't say h.o.m.os.e.xuals h.o.m.os.e.xuals.”

”This is not a semantic issue, dear.” She lays her hand on his. ”You can talk to me.”

”I know.” He pulls away from her. How could he possibly talk to his mother about everything he fears, every dark thought that crosses his mind? And yet, were the worst to happen, how would he possibly go forward without her?

He stands up and heads to the fridge. ”You think Clark keeps any provisions around here?”

Another bathroom, another shower. Everywhere she goes, she's was.h.i.+ng off the mess of where she has been. She'd prefer to be cleaning up in Manhattan, where Dorothy recently badgered the landlord to upgrade the fixtures, and where they now have a shower with a built-in ma.s.sager. This bathroom, off the upstairs hallway, next to her childhood bedroom, has been the same for as long as she can remember. Gold-flecked wallpaper, a toilet that runs too long after you flush it, a mirror with a chip in it at exactly the level of her eyes, so that she has to s.h.i.+ft around as she applies her makeup. Her father has made changes all over the house but not here, which strikes her as just like a man. A woman would make sure to renovate the facilities, the facilities, as her mother likes to call them, before repaving the driveway. Not a very feminist thing to say, but there you go. Not even a women's studies curriculum is going to erase her desire to look presentable. as her mother likes to call them, before repaving the driveway. Not a very feminist thing to say, but there you go. Not even a women's studies curriculum is going to erase her desire to look presentable.

She showers and wraps herself in a towel and is moving through the hall back to her bedroom when she sees, at the top of the stairs, leaning on the banister, her father. He's clearly been waiting for her. ”They sent me up here for you,” he says, averting his eyes.

”I'm getting dressed.” She scurries into her bedroom and closes the door.

Nothing has changed in here. Ever. Robin had his room redone, and she always expected she would, too. The excuse was that his room had been Jackson's-they had to clear the air of the memories, or something. But she, too, has memories, stuck to the walls like the flowery pink wallpaper. She'd like to clear them out. But first she'd like to climb into bed and sleep for two days.

”Notice anything different?”

”I'll be down in a minute!” she snaps, in disbelief that he's still standing out there, waiting for her.

”I added a light fixture by the bed.”

”Oh. I see it.” She used to complain that she wanted to be able to turn off the overhead light from her bed. So he did that for her. There's a new switch within arm's reach.

”Figured you'd want more control.”

”Yeah, it's great.” She still has some clothes here, even though the formal joint custody visits ended more than a year ago, on her eighteenth birthday. She finds a pair of loose sweatpants and a T-s.h.i.+rt, white, with three-quarter-length black sleeves and the logo of Doris & Georgie's Sweet Shoppe, an ice cream parlor in Greenlawn where she worked one summer while she lived with Clark. It's a little tight, and has a few stains, but it's better than the other option, a big baggy thing with a Ziggy cartoon on it that says, IT'S EASY BEING ME...BECAUSE I'M ALL I GOT IT'S EASY BEING ME...BECAUSE I'M ALL I GOT!

”Clark, don't stand there waiting for me, you're making me nervous.”

Finally, she hears him step away.

But when she comes back downstairs, many minutes later, he's hovering near the bottom of the banister. ”So are you ready to talk?”

”What do you want me to say?”

He throws his arms wide. He's not the most articulate person, her dad. He's not hyperverbal like her mother or her brother. She decides that her first priority is settling her still-knotted stomach. She swallowed two Anacin in the bathroom for her headache, but they're already churning in her gut like sand in salt water. She entertains the pa.s.sing thought that there's something physically wrong with her, beyond even being sick to her stomach. Maybe it's also a touch of sun poisoning-the burned skin on her stomach has begun to tingle and itch.

Dorothy is at the kitchen table-sitting in the same chair that used to be ”hers,” with a cup and saucer in front of her, a few crumbs on a plate. ”Come sit with me,” she says, patting the chair next to her.

The way the light slants in from the window over the sink is no different than light falling on her five, six, ten years ago-Ruby can peel away the extra weight on her mother's body, dress her in a chic, tailored blouse like she used to wear instead of the loose tunics she favors now, imagine her hair bigger and brighter, as it once was-and the effect is of a figure from a dream emerging in the flesh. Or from a nightmare, in which Ruby is still a boxed-in little girl, doing what she was told and praying faithfully for intervention because she had no will of her own.

Dorothy looks comfortable, her posture relaxed, as if sitting down to tea with Clark is a usual occurrence. There was a time when the only words that pa.s.sed between her parents were angry ones. It embarra.s.sed Ruby to see her father in those days, looking beaten down. Later, during the divorce, her mother questioned each legal detail, made everything more difficult than it had to be, until she brought out the fight in Clark. Enough time has now gone by, it seems. They can be in the same room without lawyers present, without seething at each other. What have they been talking about? About her, probably.

Ruby pulls a box of Lipton tea from the cupboard, then goes to the stove to turn on the kettle. Robin stands near the back door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Clark is in the other doorway, to the dining room. She's surrounded.

With her back to them all, she asks, ”Why can't anyone be happy for me?”

Dorothy answers, ”How can I be happy for you if I don't even know what happened?”

”The circ.u.mstances seem pretty clear-” Clark begins.

”You don't know the circ.u.mstances. You weren't there.”

”Don't give me att.i.tude, young lady!”

”I'm not a lady, lady, this isn't the nineteenth century. I'm a woman.” this isn't the nineteenth century. I'm a woman.”