That's why he's with us. For him. I didn't know how it might be to have him here. I knew him, of course, but I never came along on the Saturdays when Kenny did his divorced-dad routine, and given our depraved lifestyle (quilting, Bingo, weekly Leather-'n'-Scrabble) and the fact that where we lived at the time was so small it wouldn't have been seemly for him to spend the night; it was so small it was hardly seemly for
us
to spend the night, and we lived there. Or maybe that was just an excuse, easy and hard to challenge; I didn't know what to say to boys when I
was
one. But when we moved here, into our theoretical " two-bedroom," so perfect for me in terms of taking the stairs, and not the train, to work, an excuse that we'd never been asked to make died. Lola and Ben came to our Oscar party two years ago. As I was helping Lola into her coat at evening's end, she whispered to me.
"Wesley needs to know his father," she said.
I agreed, forgetting about it until, a year and a half later, she showed up at Ecco for lunch, alone. I was up and down, sitting with her as I was able to. She had an idea; if it was all right with us, and we should tell her right away if it wasn't, she wondered if Wesley might be able to spend the fall semester at our place. The minute it didn't work he could go right back uptown to her and Ben. He'd be with them, on East End Avenue, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, but she felt—again, if it was all right with us— that Wesley at this moment in his life, when he was becoming a man, needed to be with the one who was his father. Just till Christmas. She called Kenny and discussed it with him, too; I don't know what she said but it must have been effective, as when I brought it up Kenny said, "Till Christmas. Four days a week."
I didn't know if I'd like it, and doubted Wesley would like me; even after these couple of months here I still don't know if he does. But I've found it doesn't matter, with a kid, if you know that or not, because from what I can see as to how the Boy mind works, they may not know themselves. What does matter is that you hurtle forward with them, listen without being caught at it, wrap yourself around the endless bumpers they're crashing into and hope you can limit the bruises. After nine minutes with him I'm wasted, pretty much; he may be almost sixteen, but I have some idea of how a parent feels, watching an infant race across the rug to pit bulls and light sockets. I wonder if that's how Kenny feels; we've never discussed it. I should ask him, as in a few weeks Wesley will be gone. As for this minute, what I want to do is shout in his ear T
hat's your kid up
there! Listen!
But I don't do it. I flip the pillow, and slip on a mask, and just as I curl up I hear new sounds, creaks from the door at the top of the stairs, the one that opens to the roof. Then I hear foot steps, careful ones, and he comes into the living room. Kenny sleeps on; I imagine I hear Wesley sigh. He needs, he needs; I've known it for a while now, but what? He said it downstairs, that he needed to talk, but that's had to wait. For a moment, nothing, then I hear him go to the kitchen. Should I bound from bed and, saying nothing, put some pecorino on a plate with a pear, and then scoot back inside?
But I stay where I am; something tells me to listen, no more. I hear him as he tiptoes down the hall to our door, sense his weight shift as he wonders if we're awake and if he can whisper our names. I want to whisper, "Wes? Everything okay?" but I don't, because I shouldn't, and because I know it's not.
Kenny turns, reaches, confident in sleep that he'll find the shape of me. And I'm scared to breathe.
If you breathe, it breaks!
Laura, in
The Glass Menagerie
, referring to the horn of the prized glass unicorn she shows to The Gentleman Caller. I know the whole thing by heart, having been Tom four times. All the notes, all the words.
Another creak, and if a creak can be ambivalent, then this one is. What will he do now? I wonder. Go back to the roof ? To his narrow bed? When he came here I finally threw out the thousand ten-year-old head shots I kept in his room and gave Lenny the cache of pre-condom porn, from the time when
unsafe
meant drinking before driving; I kept, mounted on the wall, the wire-work horse head I wore in the tour of
Equus
, for the deaf. But other than that it's his room now, and he's colorized, not so much with stuff as with
Eau de
Teen
—hormones, sneakers, secrets, a scent sour and sweet at once. A good housekeeper would set out bowls of baking soda to soak it up. It's too bad we don't have one. We just have me, with my limited English skills. So is that where he's headed?
No. It's the kitchen again, and I know all its sounds; seeds drop ping from loaves, cheeses maturing, spoons as they shift in their sleep. I hear him open the fridge and clatter about in it, and I hear him turn on the tv. And even though he keeps the volume thoughtfully low I know the music embarrassingly quickly; embarrassing because you learn, as you march through life gaily, that it's wise to build a muscle to mock your own talents before others do it for you; which they will. The Shame Buzzards, as Lenny and I refer to them, are always circling, hovering, waiting to swoop; the best move to ward them off is to cry out,
Hey! I'm ashamed, already! Don't eat me yet!
But I know the music and, of course, the movie, too. It's T
he
Nun's Story
, with Audrey Hepburn, who my close friends know was actually my mother. It's my
Guns of Navarone
, really, a boyhood touchstone. Audrey plays Sister Luke, a nun in a Belgian convent before the war. She gets sent by some Old Character Actress to the Congo, where she assists and falls into hot sub-texty love with Dr. Peter Finch. At the end she leaves her cloister because it's too safe; the world's in big trouble and she knows it's not where she's needed. So at the very end, after Old Character Actress fails to talk her out of it, she steps through a door, with the suitcase she came with years before, off to the next place with no other place yet to go.
Once again I think maybe I'll just pop my head in at the kitchen door to see if Wesley wants me to make him a nice
panino
in the press his mom gave me for Christmas last year; he must need
some
thing
, as he's fifteen and it's 2:42 and he's probably in there growing. So my feet hit the floor, or I think they do, for somehow there's a gap between my
panino
intention and the morning; I wake to the smells of fall— cinnamon and garbage, smoke and rust— and realize Wednesday has happened without even asking me. I realize, too, that I'm alone in bed. Kenny's in the shower, singing some tuneless song, or maybe just talking to himself, rhythmically. Y
a got trouble,
my friends. T
he song takes me over; I was Harold Hill, at Camp White Way, when I was what? Fifteen; Wesley's age. Tr
ouble right
here in River City . . .
I hit the floor and tiptoe to the door. When I peek into the hallway I see Wesley's door is closed.
"Wes?"
Silence. Then a "Hey, George" from behind the door.
"I just wanted you to know there's juice," I say.
Another silence. "There's always juice, " he says at last.
" There is. And there's a marvelous muffin."
"What makes it marvelous?"
"I can't answer that."
"That's alliteration," he says. "Like it matters. And besides it's not there because I ate it last night, late. Which you totally know because I heard you."
"How could you have? I was just
thinking
."
He opens his door. A fresh zit glows on his forehead, which I work hard not to notice. "Come on, George," he says, on to me.
"Come on, what?"
"Just notice it, and get it out of the way."
I laugh, musically, starting at Tebaldi, ending at Bacall. "Notice what?"
"My pimple." He touches it. "This. It's actually worse if you pretend it's not there when, clearly, it
is
."
"You're right," I say. "I'm nauseous from it."
"And also, could you maybe not call me 'Wes'? Not to be rude, but it makes me feel like a boy in an E. B. White book, or something." He calls out, "
W-e-e-e-e-e-e-s? You done your chores?
My name sucks."
"You're right. It's a terrible name."
" Really?" he says, flushing with worry.
I see how careful I have to be; he loves his snark, even enjoys being his own target, but the bow and arrows have to be his. And also— I should ask other people with boys— I've noticed that he's not interested in apologies, that it's almost as if he doesn't hear them.
"This guy I dated once?" I say. "He was a classics scholar. And you know what
George
means in ancient Greek?"
"Ummm . . . falafel salesman?"
I don't laugh, as I've noticed that's not the deal with him, not what he wants; he even looks a little disappointed, in me, that is, when I do laugh. "It means
agriculturist. Tiller of soil.
So from now on you can call me Tiller. Or Ag. Up to you."
This gets a laugh out of him, or, even better, what he and Theo do, because they're so cool, instead of laughing. "Ha," he says. Not
haha.
Just
ha
, which means I'm Yorick, Henny Youngman, other people he's never heard of; I asked him once if the lone
ha
meant I was pathetic, but he said it was just the opposite.
And now, suddenly, here's Kenny, glistening, splendid enough at forty-five, with the sweetly puzzled look I find so annoying; either he can't find the unwaxed mint floss or remember the name of a song he has in mind. I always know where things are, he says, and I always know the song. And I do, pretty much.
"Hey, Dad," says Wesley.
"Shit," says Kenny, jumping back. "You scared me!" His towel falls, and for a moment he's naked in our hallway. I know his body; I've conducted a decade's census there, and yet I turn away. Because— and I see this, standing here— since Wesley's been with us we've both become dickless mannequins, straight-acting and straight-seeming and at night afraid to breathe. Would it be differ ent if we had a Classic Six on West End Avenue, with Wesley staying in the maid's room off the kitchen? We were never noisy to begin with, and after ten years together maybe we're never going to be. But now, in the dark, we're completely silent, stone saints atop our own tombs; we don't want Wesley to
hear
— words, moans, anything.
We all stoop at once, bumping our heads like Stooges, to retrieve the towel so Kenny can hide his shame.
Wesley wins, holds the towel out to Kenny. "Sorry, Dad," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you."
Kenny's always a bit stunned, it seems, to find Wesley around the apartment. "I just forgot, I guess. And you know how I am in the morning."
"I don't, actually. How are you?"
Kenny laughs. "George will tell you."
"I've never seen this man before," I say.
"But this morning," says Kenny, pulling the towel a little higher, "I'm right here."
"I can see that, Dad."
"I'm sorry about last night."
He looks to me, but I look away; it's not about me.
"I'm sure you helped, Dad," Wesley says. "The people you were helping, that is."
He looks to me again, and this time I feel a little merciful; we all have to get past this point, dripping Kenny, smelly Wesley, adjectival me. "Trannies," I say. "It was their hoedown night."
Wesley laughs— more than a
ha
this time— and Kenny does, too; I've delighted us all, for the moment, so maybe we're all okay.
"I can't say that word," Wesley says, "but George can?"
"George is different," I say, even though I'm George. "There's something . . . delicate about him, something—
strange
."
"And I Googled you on my phone," Wesley tells Kenny. "You were like everywhere."
"And nowhere," says Kenny.
"Anyway," Wesley says, "I'm going to get us all some marvelous muffins, since I ate them all."
"Excuse me?" Kenny says.
"George can explain, Dad. Any special requests?"
I assume a slight accent, shrug, become the Never Satisfied New York Lady; this is a favorite of Wesley's, and he can do it pretty well himself. "For me, just bran," I say. "I need a b.m. before my volunteer work. But I'm not expecting miracles."
Wesley laughs. Kenny looks puzzled. "What are you guys talking about?" he asks.
"I'll explain," I say. "You get dressed." I turn back to Wesley. "And get a few pumpkin ones, for the season. You need money?"
"My treat," he says, and as soon as I hear the front door close I leap at Kenny; I've waited too long for his consciousness, and I know I don't have much time until the crane comes to the window, to drop us all into our days. "Did you hear him?" I ask.
"Who?" he says, which tells me he didn't.
"Wesley," I whisper, as if he were in the hallway, with a glass pressed to our door.
"Hear him when?"
"Last night," I say, looking to the ceiling; his eyes follow mine. "Twenty after 2. Pacing. And circling."
"What was he doing up there?"
"How do I know?"
"He tells you things," Kenny says. He slips into the bathroom, where pictures of me in youthful triumph (Tom in
Glass Menagerie
, Tom in
Grapes of Wrath
, young Tom Edison in a tour of a children' s-theater musical) cover every inch of flaking wall.
"Not at twenty after 2, he doesn't," I say.
"Well, he shouldn't be up there then, should he?"