These Things Happen (17 page)

   "We didn't need it. We were writing papers, on Flannery O'Connor," Wesley says. "Did you know she had lupus?"

   "Of course I did," I say too quickly. Me; the one I'd condemn.

   "George read one of her books, too," Wesley says. "
A Good Man
Is Hard to Find
."

   "It probably sounds stupid," George says. "But I read what he reads, sometimes."

   "Why would you do that?" I say.

   "I don't know," he says. "I'm dumb. I do it so I have something to say for myself. About something other than
Gypsy
."

   "What are you talking about?" Wesley says. He's angry with George; I can see it. "You have plenty to say for yourself. So you shouldn't talk like that." I've never heard him talk like
this
, say something openly supportive to anyone before. When did that begin?

   "Anyway," George says, "that night, they came down when they finished their homework and I gave them dinner."

   "What time?" I ask.

   "Nine?"

   "But that's too late."

   "So he comes for dinner," Ben says. " Lucky him. I would. And I'd like to say something, and then shut up. To do what this kid did, at fifteen? I've seen so much in life. And this, to me, is a flag on the moon." He raises a glass. "To Theo."

   "And what's happened since then has taught us something," I say. I have to name that now, and I'm not sure I can. But it comes. I have it. And I have to share it; it can't just be mine. "That we don't live in a bubble."

   Wesley is a game-show contestant, hand primed for the buzzer " Which means?"

   I look from one man to the next. "Anyone want to help?" No one does. "It means a place," I say, "where you think you can live without reckoning. Without fear." Without my willing it, my hand extends to sweep around the room, to take in the five of us in here and the specific bit of city out there. "And this," I say, "is ours. Our bubble. New York, we're New Yorkers, it's the theater district—"

   I see Wesley has moved still closer to me. " Which means?" he says.

   "Just this," I say. "That we believe that everything, in our particular bubble— I wish I had a better word— is safe, and sure. But it's not." No one stops me, or plucks words to challenge or question; I almost wish they would. "And with Theo—"

"You have to stop for a second, Mom."

"Wesley—"

"I want to know what Dad thinks."

   Kenny stays cool. "Look," he says, "I've said this already. I can keep saying it. Right now, here,
why
we're here is not about me."

   "Who's it about, then?"

   "You know something, Wesley? I don't like to say this, but you have become incredibly rude."

   "It's rude to be asked a question and then not answer it.
That's
rude."

   "I don't know what's happening to you," says Kenny. "I just don't." He turns now to me. " Could this wait till the weekend? You don't even know what I had to do to be here today."

   "All you have to do is say who it's about," Wesley says.

   Kenny bangs the table, which I've never seen him do. "It's about
you
,
goddamnit
! And this situation we're in, and what we need to do about it! And where you're going to live!"

   " Where do you want me?"

   Kenny bolts from his seat, flinging his hands up in the air, a surrender. "I'm not going to do this anymore. I
can't
do this."

   George takes his arm, brings him back. "Kenny?
Try.
Please try."

   Kenny looks down at George's hand, as if surprised to find it there. "Don't you
know
me?" But George's hand must have done something, for Kenny sits again, and in a moment it's as if nothing has happened. But something has to happen now, and I know what it is.

   "Wesley?" I say. "Are you and Theo—" I don't even know what word to use; I don't want to scare him off. I look to everyone else, but their faces give me nothing. So I do the best I can. "Are you together?"

   He seems to be smiling at me. I can't tell. "Do you mean are we boyfriends?"

   The word sounds odd, coming from him; a toy word, with a wind-up key, not one that suggests something real, between people. "Yes," I say. "I mean—"

   "In love," George says. He's tried to help me; I know that; or help Wesley, is more like it. And even though I know this I'm dizzy with rage. What I feel, in fact, is beyond that. I can't understand it. I don't have
words
for it. And I always have words.

   "What do you think, Mom? I'm sure you think
something.
So you might as well say it."

   "Wesley," I say, "I just don't know. I feel like I don't know anything." Then something happens that seems separate from me, like it was planned for me by someone else. I turn to George, who's right there, as if he'd been waiting. "But you do," I say to him. "I just know that you do." He doesn't answer, but he doesn't look away, either. And I see something, now, that I wish I didn't, about this man, facing me, whom I have known for a long time now to be unfailingly gracious and effortlessly kind. No, it's not about him; it's about me. What I see is that I don't trust him. Maybe I never have. I didn't know that until today, sitting here, at his table. But I know it now.

   George nods to me with what looks like a very small smile. He knows what I'm thinking, I can tell. "I see" is all he says.

   "You're with Wesley a lot, it seems."

   "He hardly ever is, Mom—"

   "Please let me talk to George, Wesley."

   "But you're talking about
me
!"

   "I'm with him
sometimes
," George says. "Not that much. Ten

minutes in the morning, mostly. He's busy, for one thing; he's got his life. And I've got mine."

   "He's upstairs, though. And Kenny's always somewhere. There's nothing to stop you from going up whenever you like."

   "That's right. It is my home, for one thing."

   "Have you done that?"

   "A few times, maybe."

   "Just maybe?"

   "I'm sorry. No. Definitely. But not many."

   "All right," I say. " Thank you." I look at Wesley, count his stitches. And he's right; there are only ten.

   "And how do I know what happens when you do?"

   He wants to make me comfortable. It's what he does, where his gift lies. "You just have to ask. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

   "Well, I'm asking. I'm sorry, George. But I'm asking you now." He looks to Kenny. Kenny looks down.

   "When we're alone—" George begins.

   I don't know if he'll go further. I jump in, edit; I know when, and how, to help things along. "Have you touched Wesley?"

   "Mom."

   I think that I'm not me; I'm no one I know, or would ever want to. But it passes. I have a job to do. "Tell me, George."

   I'm out of my chair, not quite sure when it happened. Ben is, too, as is Wesley. But not George. Ben wants to bring me close; Wesley wants me to stop. I see that. But I have to do this. I don't have a choice.

   "I have to know." I turn to the others, to make the case I don't even have to make. "I'm his mother. I have to know."

   What surprises me is the noise, how sudden and loud it is (low ceilings? Or do they make things quieter?) and how quickly it grows quiet again. Dishes, glasses, silverware, all hitting the floor. Then, in the quiet, I hear ice cubes as they rearrange themselves in the one glass spared from Wesley's sweep of the table. I'm out of questions now, and I'm no longer looking at George. All I want is for Wesley to be safe; I don't think that's too much to ask. But as I reach for him he steps back, as far as he can in the small room, like a photographer who wants us all in the picture at once.

   Then he goes, out the door, into the street, and I'd follow if there wasn't all this
mess.
I see Lenny, staying as far back as he can, trying to grant us our privacy in what's already, for tonight, a festive public space, this week celebrating, per the card on the table, the cuisine of Lombardy. But we can't stay here. Others will want this table, for before or after the theater, and they'll want George to provide a pleasant evening.

   "George?" Lenny says. He looks down to the broken glass, shattered dishes, scattered pieces of crackly pizza bread, glistening with oil. George says nothing, seems to be in conference with himself. Kenny's up, wet, I see, from the spilled water. He's talking to George, but quietly, so I can't hear.

   Then I see Wesley has left his backpack here. I dump its contents onto the table. There are paper clips, crumbs, a grimy permission slip, signed by George, for a class trip to the Cloisters. Ben says my name but I'm too busy digging; this is a fi
nd
. There's a book, an actual book, not "text" arranged neutrally on some screen. As I pull it out I see it's T
he Grapes of Wrath
, dog-eared, sticky, bearing Oprah's long-ago stamp.

   "Is he reading this?" I ask.

   "Yes," George says.

"So that would mean you're reading it with him?"

   He doesn't answer. He turns away and goes to chat with the table of men in scarves, before I can talk to him, before I can say any of what I want to, and have to. I dig some more and find half a crumbled cookie. Ben is close to me, I see, with my coat, and Kenny is on the phone.

   "Lola," says Ben, reaching for me.

   I put Wesley's things, including the book and crumbled cookie, back where I found them. As Ben leads me out the night's music comes on, a lady pianist singing "I Happen to Like New York," my father's favorite song. As we go, we pass a group of six, coming in. I turn back, for just a moment, to see George come to greet them. If he sees me, he doesn't let on.

   As we come outside Ben raises his hand and a cab pulls right up. Cabs are like dogs, Ben says. They either like you, or they don't, and they always seem to like him. He has his hand out for me but I need him, for a moment, before we get in. "What have I done?" I say. "How could I ever have done that?" He doesn't answer. We get in. As soon as we sit an ad comes on the tv for the Blue Man Group, the hundredth time I've seen it; the sound on the tv is broken, so in the back of the cab there's me, Ben, and the blue faces, looking at me, as if they knew what just happened. Ben turns the tv off, and we head west, with almost no traffic, not saying anything until we come to the light at the entrance to the park. It looks as if it's about to rain. I think of Wesley, out there in it, wherever he is, because of me. The light changes; we make the turn. "How could I ever even
believe
that? It's not possible. That's not me."

   "What if it is, though?" He puts this to us both, as a biologist might ask a colleague after spotting a spark of something unexpected in a creature they thought they knew well.

   "But I
always
know what I think," I say. "I have to; it
matters
to me. It's what civilized people do."

   "They do a lot of things," he says. "Most of which, frankly, stink."

   Traffic isn't moving. Ben pays the driver, and we get out to walk. Which we often do, across the park.

   "But I'm bigger," I say, "than whoever that person who'd think that is, or say it."

   "Don't be bigger. Please. The size you are is fine. Even if you're a hypocritical, racist homophobe, as has been fully proven today."

   There are joggers, cops on horses, a woman talking on a cell phone as she pushes twins in a stroller. No one looks at me. Ben and I walk for a while, without talking. Then I stop; he walks on ahead a few steps. He stops, too, and turns back.

   "I
did
that," I say. He doesn't ask me what. We walk on. "I always thought I was safe from that. I
assumed
it. That could never be me."

   "Maybe," Ben says, "maybe we don't know who we are. Have you ever thought of that?"

   "What do we do, then?"

   We sit on a bench, both looking in front of us. At the other end, a runner stretches.

   "I lied," I say, "about calling Theo."

   "That was a good touch, though, about The
Wire.
You're good."

   "Thanks." It's surprisingly warm; I almost don't need my coat. "What else don't we know about me?"

   "A lot, probably. About me, too. I'll start a list."

   "What do I say to George?"

   "Come. Walk with me."

   I do. I put my arm through his.

"I know one thing," he says. "I don't know if it will help."

"Tell me."

"That kid can be a real pain in the ass."

"That's no help, Ben," I say. "I knew that."

   The rain never comes. We walk through the rest of the park, somehow seeing no one else, emerging on Fifth, setting out on the long, crosstown blocks to where we live, by the river, where we'll be, tonight, if he needs to come home.

S
ay I'm ten, or close to it. It was a Saturday, which was the day I'd spend partly with my dad, when he could. We went to the Museum of Natural History in the morning, where we saw the bird diorama I could never get tired of. And we saw rocks. I loved rocks. I could name a rock or mineral, no matter how small, from pretty far off. It was innate in me, I guess; I didn't question it.

    So we left the museum, got on the bus, got off at Forty-seventh Street, and walked west a couple of blocks. We crossed Eighth Avenue and came to this little place called Ecco. As soon as we sat down guys came running from the kitchen with little plates of very good things. Then George came, also with plates, so the table was pretty much covered with them.