Almost Like Being in Love

by Steve Kluger

  “Craig,” he warned, “if you don’t let Charleen have a turn, you’re getting a time-out.” The sneer died on my lips. There’s nothing worse than rebuke-by-11-year-old. So I scrunched down in my seat and returned the binoculars meekly. Who needed a time-out?

  Not that it really mattered. My sonar could pick up a hunky guy in a snug jockstrap even if I had no retinas at all. By the end of the second inning, my law partner and I had already tallied the final score: the Blue Sox may have owned the more impressive stats, but the Bandits were infinitely more fuckable.

  “Love the uniform numbers on their pants,” I muttered quietly.

  “Yes,” she whispered back. “Too bad they’re not in Braille.” I couldn’t help marveling at her aesthetic integrity. We really were two halves of the same nickel.

  “Oh, Charleen,” I breathed with mock sincerity. “If only you were a guy.”

  “Oh, Craig,” she shot back, scrutinizing a particularly tasty left-fielder through the lenses, “if only you were one too.” Then Jody stepped into the batter’s box, and the binocs were off-limits to everybody but Noah. And Charleen.

  Nobody knew for certain exactly what had transpired the night before, but after we’d put the kid to bed and settled into our rooms, she and Jody had disappeared for what was supposed to have been a twenty-minute walk to Pixley Park and back. They didn’t get home until 2:15 in the morning. On a game day! By then, Clayton was out like a light, Noah was lost to Dreamland, and I was pacing the floor in an Eleanor Roosevelt T-shirt and blue gym shorts.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I hissed, corralling her in the darkened hallway after Jody had gone to bed. “I was worried.” Presumably on her way to the bathroom but heading into a linen closet instead, Charleen was wearing a $350 Gucci negligee and a distracted half-smile that was either (a) bewitched, (b) bothered, (c) bewildered, or (d) stoned.

  “What?” she mumbled, somewhat dazed and comprehending absolutely nothing.

  “Did he kiss you?”

  “Who?” she asked blankly. Recognizing a dead end when I saw one, I opted for a more fundamental approach.

  “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog,” I advised her, playing a hunch. Charleen leaned against the door frame and nodded wistfully.

  “I know,” she sighed.

  Yep. He’d kissed her.

  “Kessler, you suck!” cried an outraged fan directly behind us. In seconds, Noah’s dukes were up and he’d already begun scrambling over Clayton’s shoulders, tendrils of smoke shooting out of his nostrils.

  “Easy, sport,” said my boyfriend, restraining him. “If your dad can roll with the punches, you can too.” Down on the field, even the Blue Sox couldn’t believe what they’d just seen. With a 2-and-2 count, Jody had slugged a long fly ball to deep right that had bounced off the wall and should have been a routine double. Instead, Troy’s improbably miniature 5-foot-2 shortstop had corkscrewed himself three feet into the air to catch the relay from the center fielder single-handedly. Holy shit! What just happened here? Trapped between the bags, Jody had engaged in a back-and-forth battle of wits with the Troy leprechaun for almost half a minute—until he miscalculated by sliding headfirst into second base, a hair too late. Tagged on the ass. Sorry, Charlie. No runs, no hits, inning over. And as I watched the other Bandits pounce on their diminutive hero back in the dugout, I was nailed by one of the most illogical metaphors I’d ever owned up to: “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.”

  It was a Travis moment.

  My whole life I’ve tried to remember the things he taught me. Not just about Ethel Merman and the Japanese American internment, but about finding the truth in everything you touch. Being Travis was a full-time job, yet that never kept him from teaching me how to be Craig.

  Romance isn’t just about roses or killing dragons or sailing a kayak around the world. It’s also about chocolate chip cookies and sharing The Grateful Dead and James Taylor with me in the middle of the night, and believing me when I say that you could be bigger than both of them put together, and not making fun of me for straightening out my french fries or pointing my shoelaces in the same direction, and letting me pout when I don’t get my own way, and pretending that if I play “Flower Drum Song” one more time you won’t throw me and the record out the window.

  Maybe he just wants to catch up on the old days. Maybe he’s in a jam and he needs my help. Maybe I’m full of shit and know it. There can only be one reason he’s tracking me down after twenty years: he wants to find Brigadoon again. But this time for keeps.

  I’m in big trouble.

  The Barbecue at Jody’s

  starring all of us

  (roles assigned by Noah)

  1. Dad and Craig get to buy the ribs and chicken and Tater Tots and corn and Fritos and Milky Ways but no salad or anything that has green in it, especially any kind of sprouts.

  Ever watch two men standing in front of a poultry case trying to figure out the difference between Best of Fryer and Tender Slivers? It’s scary. At least Jody has an excuse. He’s straight.

  We cheated a little on Noah’s list—somehow broccoli made its way into our shopping cart. But first we hid it in an empty Gummi Bears box so we could sneak it past the kid. (It didn’t work.)

  2. Charleen gets to be in charge of tablecloths and napkins and plates and forks and spoons.

  “Did you ever hear of gender stereotyping?” she groaned, searching through the kitchen drawers for silverware.

  “Nope,” rebutted Noah, tailing her closely to make sure she was following orders. “Should I look it up?”

  “Would you?”

  3. Clayton gets to light the grill and cook everything.

  Starting the fire took six seconds. This left half an hour free before Jody and I got back with what we hoped would turn into a meal. But Noah had Clayton’s downtime figured out too. “You have to throw a football with me while we’re waiting,” insisted our little Mussolini. “It’s hidden in the rules.”

  4. I get to fill up the glasses with Snapple, so tell me what flavor you want.

  Once the ribs were on the grill, Noah circled the patio with a small pad and a ballpoint pen, taking our orders quite professionally. I chose lemonade, Charleen picked Orange Crush, Jody went for iced tea, and Clayton decided on grape. At least, we thought we did.

  “This tastes like strawberry kiwi,” I observed suspiciously, lowering my glass.

  “So does mine,” concurred Charleen. And Jody. And Clay.

  “It is,” replied Noah with a shrug. “That’s all we had. But wasn’t it fun pretending I was a waiter?”

  Dinner reminded me of a kid’s game we used to play called Telephone: I told Charleen that one of her less savory ex-boyfriends was Clayton’s loan officer at the bank, Charleen told Jody that Clayton had just bought three hundred acres of land by Saratoga Lake, Jody told Clayton that he’d once spent two summers building houses in Schenectady, Clayton told Noah that there’s more kinds of concrete than Charm Pops, and Noah told Charleen that Yoda didn’t have a penis.

  family 'fam-(?)-lē n, pl -lies [ME familie, fr. L familia] 1 a: a group of people united by love.

  “We make families of our own,” Travis whispered in my arms on the last night we spent together. “It starts with you and me and then it spreads. And whatever happens, there’ll always be a part of me that’s part of you. No matter what.”

  Clayton. Jody. Noah. Charleen. Travis gave them to me.

  The Swings

  starring Noah and Craig

  Jody’s got a backyard built for kids: jungle gyms, a log cabin, two treehouses, and a fort. Grown-ups are permitted by invitation only, but Noah had issued me an open-ended visa with the following stipulations: he gets to sit on the swing and I get to push.

  “What kind of a wimp are you?” he asked irritably, sailing up toward the trees. “Why didn’t you just tell the Democrat people yes?” As my double-0 operative, he claims his middle name is Omerta (“
It means ‘code of silence,’ Craig,” he’d explained patiently), but you could practically read “What happened in Albany?” scribbled across his forehead all through dinner—and if I didn’t fill him in pronto, it would only be a matter of time before he blurted it out in front of an audience.

  “Because midlife decisions don’t happen that fast,” I retorted, trying to keep my voice down. Over by the patio, Jody had ensnared my boyfriend’s undivided attention by mapping out Clayton’s entire housing development on the back of a takeout menu from the Shanghai Palace (which, like everything else Jody touched, only took him ten minutes to complete). So both of them were unaware that the future of the United States Constitution was being resolved on a $199 swing set from Toys “R” Us.

  “I made a midlife decision once,” Noah informed me confidently.

  “No, you didn’t. Trust me.”

  “Did too,” he insisted. “And it’s simple. Do you want to get elected?” I should have known he was going to pull a stunt like that. I despise cross-examination—especially by someone less than forty-six inches tall.

  “Yes,” I finally conceded, complying with the terms of the ambush.

  “Then you’re a lowlife for not telling them you’ll do it.”

  With his opinion on my candidacy now entered into the record, we moved along to the campaign issues. To my immense relief, he approved of my position on practically all of them—AIDS funding, housing discrimination, school subsidies, and free ice cream for kids. (Okay, so I made that one up. But a vote is a vote. Lyndon Johnson would have done the same thing.) The only matter that troubled him was the Freedom to Marry initiative. I knew we were in for a filibuster because he jammed his feet into the ground, skidded to a halt, and glanced up at me with his father’s eyes.

  “They won’t let you and Clayton get married, right?” he asked pensively, collecting the pertinent facts.

  “Right.”

  “And a long time ago, they wouldn’t let Rosa Parks sit in a bus either—right?” I could see where this was going and I loved him for it.

  “Right.”

  “And now everybody thinks the people who arrested her were skanks, right?”

  “Right.”

  Noah shrugged and swung himself into the sky again. As far as he was concerned, it was an open-and-shut case.

  “So how come they don’t know that in a hundred years we’ll think the same things about the skanky guys who won’t let you get married?” Since there was no practical answer, I stopped looking for one and hugged him instead. He had it coming.

  Then we hit the jungle gym.

  That’s what made Travis so special. While the rest of us were learning the conventional crap that comes with growing up, he never forgot that we all start out like Noah. Equations are a lot simpler that way.

  “What happens when we go to college?” I asked him nervously. “Is that the end of us?” He glanced up from my chest and frowned as only Travis could frown.

  “Do you love me?” he countered.

  “Down to my toes.”

  “Then shut up.”

  Our Bedroom in Utica

  costarring Craig and Clayton

  Three-thirty in the morning. The breeze from the Mohawk fluttered past the flimsy curtains and brushed over our still bodies. Tonight we were sleeping back-to-front; Clayton had an arm wrapped around my chest and a cheek in the hollow of my neck, while his steady breathing syncopated our heartbeats into a single cadence. Ever since we met, our bed’s been a place where we can find each other again whenever we lose our way—but now I was wide awake and on my own.

  Clayton

  Travis

  Makes me feel safe.

  Walked me through the scary parts.

  Pulls me up short if I need it.

  Allowed me to make my own mistakes.

  Loves the things I am.

  Loved the things I’m not.

  Doesn’t want to lose me.

  Wasn’t afraid to let me go.

  I’m almost 39. I’ve won eighteen out of twenty-one cases. I have a best friend who trades all her secrets with me, I’ve found an 11-year-old boy who knows how to keep me on the straight-and-narrow, and I’ve loved two men who’ve both loved me back.

  It’ll all work out. I must be doing something right.

  NEW YORK STATE DEMOCRATIC COMMITTEE

  ALBANY HEADQUARTERS

  151 STATE STREET

  ALBANY, NEW YORK 12207

  June 8, 1998

  VIA MESSENGER

  Craig S. McKenna, Esq.

  McKenna & Webb

  118 Congress Park, Suite 407

  Saratoga Springs, New York 12866

  Dear Craig:

  I went ahead and had the enclosed bumper stickers made up for your approval. If it appears that I’m attempting to bribe you, I am.

  Looking forward to your decision.

  Best,

  Wayne Duvall

  * * *

  McKENNA

  STATE ASSEMBLY

  * * *

  Craig McKenna

  Attorney Notes

  Mother Machree, look what happened to Mabel.

  10

  Travis

  * * *

  THE PERILOUS JOURNEY OF TRAVIS PUCKETT

  * * *

  PART II

  Travis and A.J. in a Black Buick Named

  Robert Mitchum

  Parnell Street to I-70

  I’d made up my mind in the courtroom when she hadn’t slugged the judge for calling her calves’ liver crappy: I wanted A.J. to come to Saratoga Springs with me. Partly because there was a distinct possibility I might need a shoulder to cry on, and partly because I already missed her. Okay, so maybe we’d only known each other for forty-eight hours and maybe they’d been weird ones—but in a memory-book kind of way. “Baby’s First Tooth.” “Baby’s First Haircut.” “Baby’s First Bail Bond.” Besides, where was I going to find anybody else to call me Beaver?

  “Pancakes or Rice Krispies, Beav?” she asked, dumping me out of bed. “Supplies are limited. Who knew there’d be a fugitive on my couch?”

  I had no idea she was on the verge of cracking at breakfast when I did fifteen minutes on kissing Craig in the rain. Had I known, I’d have pulled a finale out of my ass by reenacting Brigadoon too.

  “Oh God,” she sighed, biting into an onion bagel dreamily. “Just like Julie Harris and James Dean in the bean field.” But she wasn’t quite ready to crumble yet. First she whipped up six chicken-and-egg sandwiches (“That should last you through Ohio”), and then she insisted I count out my traveler’s checks and put them in a safe place. (“Anywhere but your crotch. Why hand them a jackpot for feeling you up?”) That’s it? What about “Hey, Beaver, why don’t I go with you?” Okay. This may require some heavier artillery. So I slipped on my backpack, hugged her bravely, and stepped out onto Parnell Street like Little Boy Lost.

  “Call me if you get into any trouble,” she insisted. “I mean it. And don’t climb out of any windows.” This isn’t working, I thought to myself. Try waving timidly. That didn’t do the trick either—but once I’d determined that she was watching me from a window, I adjusted my posture so that my shoulders were slightly stooped and forlorn. Few are resilient enough to resist the pathos. Regrettably, A.J. was among them.

  The freeway was only ten blocks to the west, but my thumb and I hadn’t been at the on-ramp for more than five minutes before the Buick came screeching around the corner with a suitcase in the backseat.

  “Don’t say a fucking word,” she snapped, throwing open the door while the engine idled. “Just get in.” And I would have followed her orders gleefully—had Jiminy Cricket not chosen that moment to crawl out of my pocket and sing the conscience song.

  “You knew this was a setup, right?” I confessed hesitantly.

  “Duh,” she said. “But the shoulder thing was an artful touch.”

  St. Louis to Indianapolis

  It was only 246 miles, but we still managed to
get into four fights covering the following issues: broken red lines on a road map (“It means surface streets.” “It means highway under construction—schmuck.”), who got the window seat at Denny’s (“I said, ‘Touch black, no back’ first.” “And you actually consider that binding?”); the two little brats on Family Affair (“Buffy was less obnoxious.” “According to what authority? They both should have been on Ritalin.”); and which state is underneath Cincinnati (“It’s one of the Virginias. They’d never tolerate anything like Kentucky.” “This isn’t a judgment call!”). In between rounds, Gordo paged us three times, so we called him back on A.J.’s cell phone.

  “How badly do you need Beaver’s half of the rent?” she inquired grimly of the mouthpiece. “Because he may not be alive much longer.”

  “Give me that,” I barked, grabbing the receiver as Terre Haute whizzed past the windshield. “Gordo, go into my room, get my atlas, and tell her where Wyoming is. She thinks I’m trying to fake her out with Colorado.”

  “Slow down,” he replied (on unlimited roaming air time). “I’m still missing a couple of pieces. How did you get her to say yes? Was it the droopy head or the shoulder thing?” In the background, I could hear him typing. How much of a dumbbell did he think I was?

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  “Estimated taxes,” he lied deftly. “Let me talk to A.J.”

  For the next three counties, they were inseparable. She told him about the gossip she’d engendered when she’d bought her first brassiere, and he countered with a similar story involving a jockstrap labeled “Boys XL.” (Bullshit, Gordo. It was a medium. I remember the box.) Finally, I began to feel like a third wheel with big ears.