indiscriminately crushed a radish with one of them. He slumped against a counter. “Oh, my delicate arches,” he said, pulling off a slipper and rubbing an already-swellingbump on his left foot. “It used to be I could dance all night in high-heeled glass slippers—Cinderella meets the Rockettes, you know—and still be fresh enough to escort a gentleman home for some first-class Humpty-Dumpty before bedtime. But now”—he paused dramatically and faked a swoon—“I am undone by a tuber.” He rubbed his foot with one hand, then laughed. “Ooh,” he said. “Ow. I tickle myself. Ow!” “Radishes help digestion,” I said, leaning over to retrieve the pulpy red ball. Piles of rat droppings littered the floor. “Honey,” Barclay said, placing a lifeless hand on my shoulder. “I am
beyond
digestion.” He laughed hysterically for a second, then swish-limped to the other counter. He pulled several packages from a cabinet and threw them on the table. “The next time you go shopping,” he said, pointing, “just bring me these.” The table held plastic packages of dehydrated foods—soups and refined pastas mostly. He held one up at an odd angle next to his Cheshire smile. A line of spittle dribbled from his lips. Addressing an imaginary television audience, he said, “Just add water and serve.”
HENRY GRUNTS IN that way he has when I call, and then hollers “Martin!” without covering the telephone mouthpiece, so I receive the full brunt of his shout in my ear. “It’s your boyfriend!” Waiting for Martin to pick up, I smell garlic on my fingers from last night’s dinner. Sometime between the manicotti and the cannoli Martin had pressed a key to hisapartment in my hand; I clutched it so tightly on the train home to Brooklyn that its freshly cut edge bit into my palm, and I sucked a drop of blood to keep it from dripping on my clothes. When Martin comes to the phone, I hear him arguing with Henry in fierce whispers. “He’s not my boyfriend.” “What is he then? He’s not your lover.” “I don’t know,” Martin says. “Give me the phone.” His faint greeting is obscured by the sound of Henry’s retreating laughter. “So, what’re you thinking?” Martin asks, his voice full of sudden glee. “About what?” “Oh, about anything.” His voice lilts, and I imagine his eyes twinkling as they do when he thinks we share a confidence. “I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t thought about it.” “About moving in,” Martin says quickly, but his voice is less exuberant. “I don’t know,” I say again. “What does Henry think about it?” Martin mistakes my question for jealousy. “Don’t worry about Henry. He’d have been gone long ago, if—” He cuts himself off. “Anyway, he’ll be gone before you move in.” Then he talks about the weather in the city, and his job, and about any other thing that seems to enter his head, as if I’ve been gone for months and not just a few hours. “There was this huge fire in a building down the street. What with the drought and all, they practically tapped the city dry putting it out. Whole building was gutted, and about two dozen families stranded.” “I know,” I say, cutting him off. “I read about it in the paper.” Then I tell him my stepmother needs my help in the garden. “When will I hear from you?” he asks, and I gather from his plaintive tone that he means, When will I hearthat you’re moving in with me? “My parents have offered me the house out here,” I say quickly, before he can ask another question. “But I don’t know what’s going to happen yet.”
MY OLD BEDROOM takes the contents of my new suitcases grudgingly. Drawers that years ago held only my underwear and T-shirts and jeans now overflow with gardening magazines, sewing supplies, all types of yarns and knitting needles, half-woven macramé projects, jigsaw puzzles, books of completed crosswords, and down in the bottom drawers, my old underwear and T-shirts
beyond
digestion.” He laughed hysterically for a second, then swish-limped to the other counter. He pulled several packages from a cabinet and threw them on the table. “The next time you go shopping,” he said, pointing, “just bring me these.” The table held plastic packages of dehydrated foods—soups and refined pastas mostly. He held one up at an odd angle next to his Cheshire smile. A line of spittle dribbled from his lips. Addressing an imaginary television audience, he said, “Just add water and serve.”
HENRY GRUNTS IN that way he has when I call, and then hollers “Martin!” without covering the telephone mouthpiece, so I receive the full brunt of his shout in my ear. “It’s your boyfriend!” Waiting for Martin to pick up, I smell garlic on my fingers from last night’s dinner. Sometime between the manicotti and the cannoli Martin had pressed a key to hisapartment in my hand; I clutched it so tightly on the train home to Brooklyn that its freshly cut edge bit into my palm, and I sucked a drop of blood to keep it from dripping on my clothes. When Martin comes to the phone, I hear him arguing with Henry in fierce whispers. “He’s not my boyfriend.” “What is he then? He’s not your lover.” “I don’t know,” Martin says. “Give me the phone.” His faint greeting is obscured by the sound of Henry’s retreating laughter. “So, what’re you thinking?” Martin asks, his voice full of sudden glee. “About what?” “Oh, about anything.” His voice lilts, and I imagine his eyes twinkling as they do when he thinks we share a confidence. “I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t thought about it.” “About moving in,” Martin says quickly, but his voice is less exuberant. “I don’t know,” I say again. “What does Henry think about it?” Martin mistakes my question for jealousy. “Don’t worry about Henry. He’d have been gone long ago, if—” He cuts himself off. “Anyway, he’ll be gone before you move in.” Then he talks about the weather in the city, and his job, and about any other thing that seems to enter his head, as if I’ve been gone for months and not just a few hours. “There was this huge fire in a building down the street. What with the drought and all, they practically tapped the city dry putting it out. Whole building was gutted, and about two dozen families stranded.” “I know,” I say, cutting him off. “I read about it in the paper.” Then I tell him my stepmother needs my help in the garden. “When will I hear from you?” he asks, and I gather from his plaintive tone that he means, When will I hearthat you’re moving in with me? “My parents have offered me the house out here,” I say quickly, before he can ask another question. “But I don’t know what’s going to happen yet.”
MY OLD BEDROOM takes the contents of my new suitcases grudgingly. Drawers that years ago held only my underwear and T-shirts and jeans now overflow with gardening magazines, sewing supplies, all types of yarns and knitting needles, half-woven macramé projects, jigsaw puzzles, books of completed crosswords, and down in the bottom drawers, my old underwear and T-shirts
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