by Steve Kluger
Attorney recognized that the beaches of Normandy on D-plus-3 couldn’t hold a candle to what his living room was going to look like after his sig oth found out about Eeyore and other related events.
Attorney recognized that he might shortly be staring into the eyes of the only boy who’d ever made him smile in his sleep—and that the butterflies in his stomach were about something other than fear.
Attorney recognized that, without Prozac, he was about to turn into the China Syndrome.
Attorney fled.
I changed into my Chorus Line T-shirt and jeans in the men’s room, bought some chocolate chip cookies at the newsstand downstairs, then popped the top on the Miata and headed south. It was the only journey I’d taken by myself in twelve years and one of the few things I’ve ever done without running it by Clayton first.
By the time I hit the Taconic Parkway, I’d already figured out where I was going, but I wasn’t quite ready to admit it to myself yet. Instead, I flipped on the radio (permanently programmed to WEEI) and winced for fifteen minutes while my Red Sox gave up six runs to the Cleveland Fucking Indians. (Groan.) It reminded me of the time that Clayton and Jody and Noah and I had driven to Iowa so we could all play ball at Field of Dreams, and I’d blurted out one of my traditionally pious invocations to Fenway Park in front of our little pipsqueak. I should have known better. It always exasperates him when I do that.
“Craig, you need to get a life,” he insisted from the backseat. “They haven’t won anything since 1918!”
“You gotta believe,” I cautioned him wisely.
“Says who?” he shrieked.
Chatham came and went and so did a brief Sox rally in the second, which ended on a triple play (the ugly kind that only happens to the Red Sox). During the inning break, I learned that the Dodgers had just paid $24 million for a utility infielder who was still on the disabled list, that the doubleheader at 3-Com Stadium (formerly Candlestick Park) had been rained out, and that the National League was considering adopting the designated hitter rule. Travis would have had a field day with this. We’d have been sitting on my bed listening to the radio and his ears would have gotten redder and redder. Then all of a sudden they’d have blown off altogether.
“What idiot dreamed up ‘3-Com Stadium’?” he’d have yelped. “Know what comes next? ‘IBM’s Disposa-Dome’—the world’s first disposable ballpark! When the game’s over, just toss it! And why not a designated pitcher too? That way even dead guys like Cy Young could win their next eight starts! Craigy, who are these people?” Meanwhile, I’d have been rolling across the floor with tears streaming down my face—partly because he could always figure out how to make me laugh and partly because I’d know that this entire performance was for my benefit.
Travis, why haven’t you called me yet?
The Saw Mill River Parkway hadn’t changed much in twenty years and neither had the Beckley Quad. Risking at least two demerits, I parked the Miata in a red zone directly in front of the granite-and-sandstone portico I’d once known as Wellwood Hall, then glanced up reflexively at the pair of gargoyles I’d last mocked in 1978. Yep. They still look like Helen Hayes. For that matter, so much of the Dickensian campus had remained untouched, I half-expected Mr. Naylor to come charging out of the ivy-clogged gateway to the English department, grab me by the collar, and begin cramming Ivanhoe up my ass again. The single indication that time had indeed managed to advance at least a day and a half was the lone junior with sandy hair and a calculus text, head down and lost in cosine hell as he absently ambled across the grass toward the dorms. Though he barely took notice of me, I could tell exactly what he was thinking: “Sheesh. More alumni. I hope I never get that old.” But it didn’t matter. I had an agenda to keep—and Travis was with me every step of the way.
My Room
With the light streaming in through the tiny window and hitting the same faded patch of gray linoleum, I could have sworn I’d just won back my adolescence: the bed was exactly where it had always been and the radiator still hadn’t been painted. All that was missing was Travis, the chocolate chip cookies, Travis, King Lear, Travis, “ubiquitous,” Travis, the Grateful Dead, and Travis. (This is where he said “I love you” for the first time.)
The Swimming Pool
Almost deserted under the canvas dome, its only occupants were two squealing boys who’d obviously crawled in through the same window I’d used myself years earlier, and who appeared ready to commit the rest of their lives to dunking each other in the water. This was one of the only two places in Westchester County where Travis and I could be naked together without anybody suspecting.
The Oak Tree Ninety-three Paces into the Woods
Where we’d go when we didn’t think we could survive another ten minutes without at least one kiss—which was usually multiplied by a more substantial integer before we were through.
“Have we hit a baker’s dozen yet?”
“How many’s that?”
“Fifty.”
“No.”
A new carpet of leaves now covered the ground where we’d once cuddled, and our tree was a little bit more scarred than it had been in 1978. Running my hand up and down the trunk, I wondered illogically if it still remembered us.
The Library
The only thing that had changed was the animated young woman sitting behind the checkout desk, who was practically indistinguishable from her equally perky predecessor (leading me to wonder whether or not there isn’t a mail-order catalog somewhere that specializes in cheerful high school librarians). Encouraged by her benevolent—if exhausting—smile, I made my way to the back room (“Poetry and Drama”) and found the two overstuffed leather chairs I’d been looking for. On rainy days Travis and I would sit here side-by-side, reading together—Auntie Mame (his choice) or In Cold Blood (mine). This is where I said “I love you” for the first time.
The Dorm Showers
Either in the interests of modesty or as a result of finally figuring out what horny adolescent boys are capable of, the eight nozzles—to my unbridled dismay—had been partitioned off into separate stalls. (It’s like revisiting Fenway Park after a protracted absence and discovering that they’d repainted the Green Monster Day-Glo orange.) This was the other place in Westchester County where we could be naked together without anybody suspecting. All we had to do was get really dirty. Three times a day.
“How long have we been in here?”
“Two hours. Why?”
“The water pressure’s gone.”
Study Hall
Since it was packed with kids cramming for finals, I didn’t go inside. Instead, I squinted through the window until I’d spotted the pockmarked corner table where we’d pass notes back and forth disguised as English essays. As a rule, I generally don’t blush retroactively, but sometimes it’s unavoidable.
The Lear Perplex
King Lear was an old fart. Travis isn’t. And he’d better let me touch him before fifth period.
Mourning Becomes Electra
This is supposed to be a contemporary tragedy, but the real tragedy is not being able to play with Craig’s belly button whenever I want to.
The Chapel Rectory
No details will be revealed—now or ever. We’re already going to hell for this one.
The Tarrytown Railroad Station
Underneath the tacky green-and-red mansard roof, the two cobblestoned platforms were as seedy and piss-smelling as I’d remembered. This was where all of our adventures started—and where Travis always believed we could make them last forever.
“Why don’t we take the 5:10 to Poughkeepsie and never come back?”
“What’s in Poughkeepsie?”
“Us. Once we get there.”
Somehow, we never did.
Before I hit the on-ramp heading home, I stopped by Tappan Hill Park for one last kick in the ass. There was a Little League championship taking place on the diamond (with a far more reasonable score than the Red Sox had managed to maintain
against the Indians) and the sky threatened rain—just as it had done once before. But the gazebo was empty and waiting. As I followed the curving footpath toward Ground Zero, I tried to count the number of times Travis and I had come back here when nobody else was around, just so we could replay our first kiss. He’d pretend our being there was an accident of Fate—“Hey, look! The park! Let’s go reminisce!”—but I’d later find out that he’d blocked our entire route well in advance. (Smerk was the one who invented the concept of premeditated spontaneity.)
Except for another seventeen layers of rust, the seasons had stood still between the metal archways. I found the place where he’d leaned his head on my shoulder while he told me how his stepmother had thrown him out of the house; I pinpointed the spot where I’d run my fingers through his hair and confessed that I always suspected I liked boys better than girls; and I stood where we’d stood when I first took his hand and gave him my heart in exchange. Finally, after I’d gotten up enough nerve, I crouched down to sneak a peek under one of the concrete benches—and discovered at once that two decades hadn’t eroded the covenant that had been so dauntlessly etched there a generation earlier: Craig Loves Travis, 6/9/78. So I pulled a blue rolling writer out of my denim jacket and added “6/9/98” underneath it.
Nobody needed to know but me.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Craig
FROM: Charleen
DATE: June 9, 1998
SUBJECT: Fasten Your Seat Belt, Margo
* * *
Clayton found out about the offer from the Democrats. I’m still not sure how. The foam around his mouth was garbling his ability to articulate.
I attempted to throw him off the scent by assuring him that you’ve been far too busy to consider such nonsense seriously—at which point my nose extended eleven feet and precluded my riding in any elevators.
On a scale of 1 to 10, this looks like a 24. Call me if you need moral support or bandages.
Ch
CLAYTON’S HARDWARE
serving Saratoga Springs since 1988
Craig—
I can’t fucking believe you’d keep something like this from me. What ever happened to “love, honor, and cherish”? Is that why you haven’t given me a wedding ring back yet? Is that why you always dodge the bullet when I bring up places for us to get married? “Don’t tell Clayton—he’ll hit the ceiling.” Thanks for trusting that I love you.
By the way (since it doesn’t seem to have sunk in yet), Harvard was never about riots or civil rights or freedom marches. Harvard was about wondering every morning whether you’d be in bed with me that night or in jail or in the ICU or dead. If that doesn’t prove how much you mean to me, then tough shit.
And don’t tell me this is different. You already blew off Rehobeth Beach before they even asked you to run. Now we get to wait in line behind a whole fucking state. Know how many couples survive this? I’ll give you a hint. Harry and Bess Truman. Period.
I’ll be bunking at the store until further notice. Too many things I already regret saying—and I haven’t even said them yet.
Clayton
Craig McKenna
Attorney Notes
He found the bumper sticker. It was hidden at the bottom of my sock drawer. Even the CIA would have missed it.
The only other time I’ve spent a night by myself in this house was when he went to the hospital to have his appendix taken out. I hated it then and I hate it now. It’s like being single all over again—and who can remember how that works? Dinner, for instance. I stood at the kitchen counter for fifteen minutes trying to convert the lasagne formula from two people to one. (It was kind of like going from Fahrenheit to Centigrade—and I can’t do that either.) So I gave up altogether, made it the way we always do, and then threw his half away.
The rest of the evening was just as rocky. Defiantly breaking one of our most inflexible rules, I watched Valley of the Dolls by myself (though I only ate half the Raisinets and I didn’t say any of his Neely O’Hara lines out loud). I picked a fight with him in the suddenly cavernous shower even though he wasn’t there to shout back (“Who told you to go sneaking around in my sock drawer?” Silence.), and I slept facing away from his side of the barely occupied bed so it’d be easier to pretend he wasn’t gone. That didn’t work either. Every time I woke up reaching for him, I’d poke my eye on a ten-dollar pillow sham from Bloomingdale’s. But if 2:53 in the morning is generally only utilized for earthquakes of a magnitude 6.0 or greater, it also provides a handy opportunity to rewind twelve years of your life in the dark.
How did this happen? One minute I was Craig McKenna, Superhero, and the next thing I knew I had a brand burned into my ass that said, “If lost, return to Clayton.” When was the last time I was allowed to make a decision? February 14, 1996, that’s when. Valentine’s Day. I got to pick regular unleaded instead of Techron Supreme. Major fucking wow. He even gives me a hard time about staging a teensy protest on my birthday. “Clay, twelve hundred people are being massacred on our front lawn. Can I call the police?” “No. You’ll only make waves.” Who asked you, you big bully? And by the way—I hate lasagne!
It’s time for some affirmative action. No more backing down. From now on, I call my own shots. This is the old Craig McKenna again. The all-star quarterback with a sterling silver Victory Cup. The unbeatable shortstop who wouldn’t be struck out. The summa cum laude Harvard attorney who doesn’t take shit from anybody.
The Boy from Brigadoon.
I shouldn’t have watched Valley of the Dolls without him.
12
Travis
CLAYTON’S HARDWARE
serving Saratoga Springs since 1988
Trav—
Stopped by the hotel on the off chance you’d be in. There’s a couple of houses out by Loughberry Lake that I wanted you to see. Once we figure out what we’re going to build you, I can get started on the specs.
If you’re not doing anything later, meet me for a beer after I get off work. The boyfriend and I aren’t speaking again. This time it really is his fault. And I think I need somebody to talk to.
Clay
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
Things It’s Okay to Discuss
Hardwood floors.
Lawn fertilizer.
The Revolutionary War.
“The course of true love never did run smooth.” Mention Romeo and Juliet, Rick Blaine and Ilse Lund, Fanny Brice and Nicky Arnstein, and any other couples who either died or broke up.
The advantages of separation and divorce.
Ann Landers: “Toss him back and fish for another one.”
General Notes
Point out the many freedoms that come with being on your own again. (Quote the Bill of Rights and most of the lyrics from Company.)
Remind him that an amicable breakup requires moving out as soon as possible.
Suggest that remaining friends doesn’t usually work in the long run. If he asks for proof, make something up. Just don’t let him go there.
Also come up with a lot of pejorative adjectives for Craig, such as selfish, inconsiderate, insensitive, tactless, greedy, parsimonious, avaricious, cold-hearted, obdurate, pitiless, venal, and callous. (But wait for Clayton to start. You might look like you have an agenda.)
I feel like I’m walking across Omaha Beach without a minesweeper.
Dear Gordo,
Beaver’s in the bathroom examining blueprints. As of lunch, he’d pretty much decided on a ranch house with a split-rail fence out front. (“Doesn’t it kind of look like Spin and Marty?”) I think we need to remind him that this is supposed to be a ruse. Because he’s about six minutes away from a lasso and chaps.
He and Clayton haven’t left each other alone for two days. If they’re not This-Bud’s-for-You-ing, they’re either reliving their
favorite box scores or gamboling through lakefront lots like a couple of Scottish pipers tramping across the moors. Thursday is their bowling night. By next week, they’ll have taken a condo by the sea together.
According to the frontline bulletin from the Sweet Shop this afternoon, Craig and Clayton haven’t spoken to each other since yesterday. Of course it’s none of my business, but from my customary radar station in the next booth (where, like the Black Dahlia in dark glasses and veil, I’ve become something of a local mystery), Clayton gets an automatic zero for being a stubborn and possessive slug. So what if Craig runs for office? How many interns could you possibly molest in a state assembly, for Christ’s sake? On the other hand, Craig doesn’t exactly score points for being a pillar of fire either. “I hate it when he’s mad at me. What can I say to bring him around?” Try “Fuck off,” you crybaby. It works like a charm.
(Note: When Craig went to the bathroom, Charleen called Jody from her cell phone and arranged a covert rendezvous at a place called Stone Ridge, which is halfway between the Springs—as we here like to call it—and Utica. Two-thirds of the restaurant overheard her. Mata Hari she ain’t.)
By the way, Mom got the Andy Hardy videos you FedExed. You dope. I knew you were going to pull something like that. She always said that she’d have married Mickey Rooney in a heartbeat—which only means that you and I could have anticipated particularly short children.