They talk. They talk about everything that’s happened in the hours since she left him down the shore, and then about everything that transpired in the years since their phone calls ended. “Those were our lost years,” Chris says.
“I still can’t believe I found you again,” Ruby says.
They talk without thinking of time.
When at last Chris’s mother calls him away, and they hang up—I love you, I love you—Ruby feels almost embarrassed—even though she’s alone—to discover the snot dripping from her nose. Down below, there’s been more blood. She didn’t want to break away from him and now she’s sticky and she wants another shower.
When she comes back from the bathroom, she sees that there’s moonlight in the room. Outside the window, fat and orange and filling the sky almost magically, the moon is finally there, on the ascent. It’s a different moon than last night’s—already shrinking on one side, like a piece of fruit left on the counter to age.
She’s aware of what a deadly quiet night it is. There’s barely a car on the road. No laughter from neighbors barbecuing in their yards. All she hears is the sound of crickets, a faint musical croaking that has always been the sound of summer nights in New Jersey.
Then she picks up the gurgle of the television from downstairs. Clark must be settling in for the night. A lot of those lost years passed by right there, on the couch, near her father, with the TV on and not much being said. She has at times resented all those vanished hours, resented the split in her family that forced her to spend time here, when she might have been somewhere else, of her own choosing. But right now, in the middle of this silent summer night, drained of the energy she just gave to Chris, as she sent him off to repair himself, the comfort of the living room seems like all she can manage. She pulls herself up and heads toward the stairs, toward the sound of something familiar.
A car in the driveway brings Robin to the window. It’s not just any door, but the distinctive heavy slam of the Cadillac. The yard is bright with moonlight, and George is making his way across it.
He’s been poring through his diaries for a while now, feeling the distance between who he was then and is today, and also, more obviously, how time has failed to change him. All the ways he hasn’t yet mastered his fears, focused his actions. He reads a line he wrote at fifteen or sixteen, like, I’m going to try harder to reach out to Ruby, or I’m going to rehearse more outside of class, or I’m going to learn to be a better listener, and it could just as easily have been written today at age twenty.
It’s been strange to be holed up in Greenlawn, this close to Manhattan, and not go into the city. Not even feel the pull of it. When his mother left, she invited him back with her, and as he told her, no, I’m going to stay here so George and I can make an early start for Philadelphia, he could see that she wasn’t quite sure how to take it; in the old days, if Dorothy was driving from Greenlawn to New York, her children were always in tow. But they’re not children now, not in the same way. So some things in your life do change. External things. Inside, it seems, if these diaries contain any insight at all, you continue to be the same person. Unless you can be brave.
Home is a powerfully mysterious concept right now. Philadelphia is new and temporary. Manhattan is his official address, and yet he spends less time there than at any point in the past five years. With all of them in Greenlawn today, this place has the whiff of family life as it might have been lived had the earth not shaken under their feet all those years ago; but he could hardly call this home. Clark lives here, amid the memories, but Robin feels caught in a role between a visitor and a guest, like a squatter with an old claim who pops up from time to time for a meal and a nap. He knows he’ll never again do more than pass through this house, never stay for long. He’ll return to Pittsburgh in the fall, but he wonders if it will seem like Peter’s turf, if he’ll have to start all over, sift through friends, find new hangouts, try to resolve what is still his, as opposed to what used to be theirs. And then in the spring comes London, the big unknown, the test. He’ll go. He knows that now. He has to; it’s the brave choice. But London won’t be home. None of these places seems solid, or permanent. He could be in any one of them and still feel like he belonged somewhere else. Or nowhere at all.
Robin takes the steps downstairs two at a time, wondering what could have brought George back so soon. In the living room, Clark and Ruby are sitting on the couch together, watching what appears to be a science fiction movie, though a rather ridiculous one, with fake-looking spaceships and a lot of overacting. They’re both laughing, Clark rather heartily and Ruby almost against her better judgment. As Robin passes by, Clark says, “You gotta come back for this. It’s Buckaroo Banzai.”
George is at the back door, looking worn-out in the same T-shirt and scrubs he’s worn all day. His face portrays absolute dejection. His eyes look like he’s been rubbing them, as if he’s been crying, which is not like him at all.
“I told them,” he says.
Robin doesn’t need to ask what. “Come in. I want to hear.”
George drops his bag on the floor and slumps into a kitchen chair. “Is there any beer?”
Robin opens the fridge and digs among the lower shelves. In the back he finds a couple cans of Miller. “That’ll do,” George says. Then Robin gets another idea. In the upper cabinets he finds a bottle of Scotch, a fancy bottle in a blue velvet bag. George nods eagerly.
Robin calls out, “Clark, we’re borrowing your Scotch.”
“What?” Clark calls back, his voice barely carrying above the explosions from the TV.
Robin fills two glasses with ice and pours an inch of amber liquid over both of them. He finds a half liter of Diet Coke in the fridge and pours it into one of them. “Straight up for me,” George says, and then adds with a rueful twist to his mouth, “So to speak.”
Robin raises his glass. “Here’s to one of the biggest moments of your life.”
George gulps and winces as the Scotch goes down. “I hope it wasn’t one of the biggest mistakes.”
“Come on, you know it wasn’t.”
“Telling them was the only thing on my mind. I was thinking, if they had a meltdown on me, I could leave and go to a bar. There’s that gay bar in River Edge, Feathers.”
“The worst name for a bar ever,” Robin says. “Plus, I’ve never gotten past the guy checking ID.”
“I kept thinking of how your mom asked you about Peter. Seemed so normal. I thought, OK, it’s possible for people to open up their minds.”
“Hey, not to interrupt, but I’m sorry about that thing before, when I didn’t tell you that Peter had left me that message. I don’t want you to think—”
George sucks down some more Scotch and makes a dismissive gesture. “My mom had made a whole bunch of food, all my father’s favorites, like this battered steak and mashed potatoes, so she heated some up for me. My father was saying what a great surprise it was that I showed up for Father’s Day. I didn’t give him the whole story, about Ruby. I just said that you and I decided we’d surprise our fathers. And he was really in a good mood. I figured, I’ll build up some goodwill. Cash in on it later. And they wanted to know about school and about the restaurant and all sorts of things—”
“Did they ask about me?”
“Well, I mentioned you first, and then my mother said something.”
Robin thinks that he may not want to know what that “something” was. There was a time when Mrs. Lincoln was really fond of him, but the first time she saw him visiting from New York, wrapped in some not-very-masculine outfit, she notably cooled. Now, when he talks to her on the phone, she’s polite, but it’s never more than small talk. “She used to like me,” Robin says. “But she can smell it on me now.”
“Hold on, this isn’t about you.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” His diary mocks him: Be a better listener.
“So then out comes the chocolate cake, and I finally just told them, ‘It’s time to discuss the fact that I am
gay.’ And my father just got this angry look on his face and said, ‘When did you make this decision,’ and my mother said that I’ve seemed confused for a while now. And I tried to give them, I don’t know, a little personal history. And I told them everything I knew about science, about how it’s inborn, probably genetic, so it wasn’t a decision to be gay, and my father said, ‘There are no homosexuals in our family,’ and he said I’d lost my way. I was like, ‘There’s Rosellen, she’s a lesbian,’ and they just acted shocked. I mean, come on! Then my mother admitted that she’d been worried about me, and she went to our pastor once to ask him about homosexuality, and he said something about love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin. And my father said the sin was leading to disease.”
“You got it from every angle,” Robin says.
“I was ready to fight. I mean, I was prepared, I had my facts and figures, you know? I said that the government had to do something to educate people about this medical crisis, and that there were people doing research, and the government wasn’t funding it. ‘How do you know the government didn’t cause it?’ my father said. ‘I don’t,’ I said. And because my folks are such die-hard Democrats and despise Ronald Reagan, I got some glimmer that maybe they might understand the situation that way. So that was the best I could do. But they could not understand that I was telling them, this is who I am. I mean, they basically told me I couldn’t be gay. That takes a lot of nerve.”
George empties the glass. The ice cubes settle into the bottom.
The sound brings Robin back to the Greek restaurant, to Peter. The sound of dissolution. He reaches across the table and pries George’s hand from his glass, holds on to his fingers, which are chilled. “Parents are always telling their kids who they are,” he says.
“Not your parents.”
“Well, not as much as they used to,” Robin says.
In his last conversation with Dorothy before she left, when she came into his bedroom still trembling from the words that had gone back and forth between her and Ruby, Robin told her that he had had a talk with Clark. And he told her then that he had expressed this fear to Clark, that if he got sick Clark would reject him, and Dorothy had said, with steel in her voice, “I won’t let him.” And Robin found that he believed her, because she and Clark were communicating again, had approached something like a truce, would perhaps rebuild a civil relationship and maybe even turn to each other when needed, if required. But a mother who is willing to stand with her adult child, no matter who he has turned out to be, is a mother who has gotten used to her child as an adult. There has been a reckoning, and an acclimation. He tries to tell George this, that his parents will come around, some day, but there’s no way for George to take comfort. The rejection still burns hot.
“That’s not my home anymore,” George says. “So I’m here to drive you back to Philly tonight.”
“I thought you were here to get drunk.” Robin pours more Scotch into George’s glass. “Stay over,” he says.
“Will your dad mind?”
“He doesn’t even know what’s in his liquor cabinet.”
“No, will he mind me staying?”
Robin shakes his head, thinking that he won’t give Clark the chance to say no, if it comes to that. “Come on,” he says. “They’re in the living room.”
Clark and Ruby wave hello to George but remain fixed on the television screen, which shows a close up of a remarkably handsome actor with sharply chiseled features, gelled hair, a sexy space-age suit. He seems to be a scientist but is also singing in a rock band. “Who’s that?” Robin asks, not recognizing the actor.
Clark says, “That’s Buckaroo Banzai.”
Ruby offers a sly smile, understanding from the tone of Robin’s voice what he was actually asking.
There’s another character, a black guy with a Jamaican accent and foot-long dreadlocks hanging down his back, who is saying, “The situation is explosive.”
“You planning on wearing your hair like that?” Clark says to George, with a slight chuckle as if the idea is more comical than anything else.
“Anything could happen,” George says.
“How much time do you think that takes, for that length?”
“Depends how quickly it grows.”
“Well, we like you just the way you are.”
“Dad,” Robin says, “how about making room for some expansion.”
“Fair enough,” Clark says. “Fair enough.”
Robin tugs George on the arm. “George is staying over,” he announces, and they move toward the stairs.
On the TV, Buckaroo Banzai is saying, “Wherever you go, there you are.”
Ruby makes a sarcastic click with her mouth. “Profound,” she says.
Robin looks to her, and she glances toward George, making his ascent. Without a sound, she mouths the words, “Sweet dreams.”
They stand together inside the garish bedroom, the silver vertical lines making a kind of cage around them. George is staring at the single bed. “So, we flip a coin to see who gets the floor? Or should I just sleep on the couch downstairs?”
Robin takes him by the shoulders and pushes him backward. They fall one then the other onto the blanket. Robin drapes himself across George, feeling how solid he is, and how warm, and how the smell of his body is strong and familiar. Robin lowers his face, close enough to kiss. But George unexpectedly turns his head.
“What?” Robin asks.
“There’s something else I didn’t tell you,” George says. “Yesterday at work, before I left early, that guy Matthias called the restaurant. He wanted me to come over again.”
“Did you tell him you found someone better to have sex with?” He makes sure George can see that he’s smiling, though in fact he feels something like jealousy.
“I told him I was busy. Then I felt bad for not speaking up for myself. Because I wanted to say, ‘I’m not interested in being sexually colonized.’”
“They sure teach you a lot of big words at that Ivy League school.”
George frowns, “You don’t think I’m serious?”
“Of course you’re serious. You’re always serious.” Robin rolls off George, finding room alongside him on the bed. “Look, if a guy says something idiotic to you, sometimes you gotta just laugh it off. A guy like Matthias—just tell him he’s an idiot. And that he’s not much of a lover.”
George seems to take this in. “I think it’s more complicated than that.”
Robin waits another moment and says, “At the risk of saying the wrong thing for like the ten-thousandth time this weekend—”
“Why hold back now?”
“You need to know, George, that you’re turning into a babe. All those push-ups you’re doing are working.”
“Shut up. I’m a short black guy with glasses and no fashion sense.”
“No, you shut up. I’m telling you, you’re gonna get a lot more attention. And some of the guys are going to be jerks. Racial stuff is part of it. But sex is just like that. The way people treat each other, it’s not always about respect. You should trust me on this one.”
“Well…”
“Well, what?’
George is quiet for a while, so Robin prods him to speak. “OK,” George starts, pushing up his glasses. “Last night, you went back to your bed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We fell asleep together, but you snuck out and then you sort of tried to avoid the subject.”
So that’s it. “Your bed was too small,” he tries. But George is waiting for more. “I didn’t know that would bother you.”
“It didn’t seem very respectful.”
Looking into the soft brown of George’s eyes, Robin admits, “Last night stirred up a lot of feelings for me.”
“So sex has an emotional component for you,” George says.
“Doesn’t it for you? Doesn’t it for everyone?”
“Even casual sex?”
“That wasn’t casual!”
“Oh.”
<
br /> “If it was, you wouldn’t be mad that I left your bed.”
“I guess you’re right,” George says. “That’s what makes it so baffling.”
Robin realizes that he’s starting to get worked up, that this is moving in a direction that scares him. He just wants everything to be all right. More than all right. He wants this to move forward, not to stop. He feels his heart thumping against his skin where he’s pressed up against the bed. He feels like he might implode for all the churning in his blood.
Perhaps George picks up on this, because at last he moves closer, and rests his body against Robin’s. Robin feels himself begin to calm immediately.
“If we keep having sex,” George says, “we can’t let it ruin our friendship.”
“Definitely not.”
“Because what I want, is for sex to make our friendship better.”
“Me too,” Robin says. He thinks: Better, yes. But it won’t be the same. And we won’t know what that means until we get there.
Later that night, the room dark except for last slanting ray of moonlight, Robin lies on his side, his arms wrapped around a sleeping George, replaying their words, realizing he’s just had sex, for the first time ever, in this bed, in this house. With George Lincoln. His friend, roommate, coworker, lover. Tomorrow they rise early and head back to Philadelphia, so Robin can get to work, can save his job. Can stay with George, for a while. The summer only lasts two more months, which seems like nothing and like forever, because they’re on the verge of everything new. It’s impossible to predict what might change during this next short window of time, impossible not to imagine that everything could turn over, all over again. Right now there is just this: George sleeping trustfully against him. There is the security of that.
For the first time in a long time, Robin falls asleep thinking, You’re going to be OK.
The last thing he hears is the sound of the television clicking off downstairs. He hears his sister’s heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. He listens as she pauses at the entrance to her bedroom, and right before the door clicks shut behind her, he hears that she is crying.
Robin and Ruby Page 32
