stove. Smoke fills the hollow between the counter and the cabinets. He stares at the phone. There’s no way to reach her now. If he chose to indulge this flush of worry, he could call his insomniac mother; it’s 2 A.M ., and she might still be enthroned at this moment on her sofa, poring over the latest Book of the Month Club selection. He can picture the sheen of her cream-colored robe, the lamplight twinkling off her reading glasses, her face scrubbed of makeup. (He wonders: When Dorothy thinks of him, as she must, is she able to form such an accurate picture? The details of his routine are unknown to her; the things he did tonight are definitely beyond what she could imagine about him. She knows he’s gay, she knows George is, too; but the two of them, old friends, just like brothers, together like they were tonight? No, Dorothy wouldn’t consider it possible.)
He pushes the save button. The message light goes dark.
Tomorrow is Sunday. Ruby will probably wake with a hangover and then call in the afternoon to fill out the story. She’ll be embarrassed. She’ll be with Calvin again, eating breakfast at a comically late hour. She’ll turn the conversation around, ask Robin about his night.
Will he tell her about this evening that began with rejection and ended up with something quite the opposite? He still feels the bruise of being dumped and the humiliation of the fight outside the club. With just a few hours’ distance, he understands the finality of it. Peter is finished with him. But then there’s the unfinished story: this thing with George. Ruby has known George nearly as long as he has. Will he tell his sister what has happened here? And if he doesn’t, what does that say?
The first time Robin told his sister, in plain terms, about a crush on a boy, she should have been way too young to understand. She was only twelve, but she had figured out about Scott, had overheard a phone call. “Ruby, this will probably sound weird to you,” Robin had stammered, one winter morning in Greenlawn, not long after Jackson died. “Scott is more than a friend.”
“Does that mean you like him?” she asked, looking him in the eyes.
“Yeah,” Robin admitted. “The way a guy likes a girl.”
But Scott had moved to another town a half-hour bus ride away, and he had stopped calling, and he wouldn’t come to the phone when Robin called. Robin decided he had to go see Scott and say something to his face, friendly or unkind, he didn’t know which it would be. Ruby listened to all this and then told Robin she would cover for him; and so she made possible the long adventure that followed.
His time with Scott that day was brief. They were alone for a while in Scott’s room; they got stoned; they kissed and groped each other and then had a fight. Breakup sex is what he would call it now. Robin left, knowing he probably wouldn’t see Scott anymore. Afterward, wiping tears from his cheeks with the cuff of his sweat jacket, he found himself not on the bus back to Greenlawn but on a bus to New York City. He hardly remembered making the decision, but there he was, enveloped in the flurry of Port Authority on a Saturday afternoon, running from his first heartbreak.
He set out on foot downtown, along Broadway, moving from one public square to another—Times, Herald, Union, Washington—in between which were long, anonymous stretches of sidewalk. In Washington Square, he parked himself on the back of a bench, feeling less sorry for himself now that he had navigated so many city blocks and wound up in a place he knew well. He’d been in Washington Square with his mother, many times, and once with Scott, but never alone; it was a triumph just being here. The sun emerged from a bank of clouds, but he had no gloves, so his hands stayed in the pockets of his down vest. He stared at strangers moving past. In the city you saw all kinds: glamorous, exotic, trendy, scary, old, young, the kind who looked you in the eye and the
He pushes the save button. The message light goes dark.
Tomorrow is Sunday. Ruby will probably wake with a hangover and then call in the afternoon to fill out the story. She’ll be embarrassed. She’ll be with Calvin again, eating breakfast at a comically late hour. She’ll turn the conversation around, ask Robin about his night.
Will he tell her about this evening that began with rejection and ended up with something quite the opposite? He still feels the bruise of being dumped and the humiliation of the fight outside the club. With just a few hours’ distance, he understands the finality of it. Peter is finished with him. But then there’s the unfinished story: this thing with George. Ruby has known George nearly as long as he has. Will he tell his sister what has happened here? And if he doesn’t, what does that say?
The first time Robin told his sister, in plain terms, about a crush on a boy, she should have been way too young to understand. She was only twelve, but she had figured out about Scott, had overheard a phone call. “Ruby, this will probably sound weird to you,” Robin had stammered, one winter morning in Greenlawn, not long after Jackson died. “Scott is more than a friend.”
“Does that mean you like him?” she asked, looking him in the eyes.
“Yeah,” Robin admitted. “The way a guy likes a girl.”
But Scott had moved to another town a half-hour bus ride away, and he had stopped calling, and he wouldn’t come to the phone when Robin called. Robin decided he had to go see Scott and say something to his face, friendly or unkind, he didn’t know which it would be. Ruby listened to all this and then told Robin she would cover for him; and so she made possible the long adventure that followed.
His time with Scott that day was brief. They were alone for a while in Scott’s room; they got stoned; they kissed and groped each other and then had a fight. Breakup sex is what he would call it now. Robin left, knowing he probably wouldn’t see Scott anymore. Afterward, wiping tears from his cheeks with the cuff of his sweat jacket, he found himself not on the bus back to Greenlawn but on a bus to New York City. He hardly remembered making the decision, but there he was, enveloped in the flurry of Port Authority on a Saturday afternoon, running from his first heartbreak.
He set out on foot downtown, along Broadway, moving from one public square to another—Times, Herald, Union, Washington—in between which were long, anonymous stretches of sidewalk. In Washington Square, he parked himself on the back of a bench, feeling less sorry for himself now that he had navigated so many city blocks and wound up in a place he knew well. He’d been in Washington Square with his mother, many times, and once with Scott, but never alone; it was a triumph just being here. The sun emerged from a bank of clouds, but he had no gloves, so his hands stayed in the pockets of his down vest. He stared at strangers moving past. In the city you saw all kinds: glamorous, exotic, trendy, scary, old, young, the kind who looked you in the eye and the
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