of ever knowing. “He’s in preschool, then,” I say.
Corey’s eyes, suddenly consumed by a terrible sadness, stare down at his plate on the table. “When he can go,” he whispers.
I lean forward. “When he can go?”
He sits back on the bench and averts his eyes. “Some days I have to pick him up early. We play video games and stuff until Rhonda gets home from work, and then I leave.” He looks at me, a quick glance, turns away. “I got laid off from my job, so . . .”
“I’m sorry.”
His shoulders go up and stay there when he says, “My fault,” and then drop back down when he adds, “but it gives me time to be with Pickles.”
“Pickles?”
For the first time, his lips make a smile and his eyes brighten. “Little Norton’s nickname. It started when he was teething. Rhonda was . . .” His voice fades away, but when he jerks his head it comes back. “When my wife was pregnant, she had a craving for pickles and ice cream. One day Norton was fussing, and she had a pickle in her hand, so she stuck it in his mouth. He sure did love that pickle, sucked on it like you wouldn’t believe. He still loves pickles.” The brightness disappears from his eyes and he stares at the wall. “She had a miscarriage.”
I reach across the table to touch his arm. He flinches and pulls away, sits farther back on the bench. “Did you know my mom, too?”
I wince. “Not well.”
“She had to raise me alone.”
I nod.
“She lied about my dad.” He spits the words out through pursed lips. “She never told me the truth.”
My tongue freezes in my mouth. What truth? What does he know?
“She should have told me.” He tightens his jaw and shakes his head. “It could have made a difference.” He stares down at the table again. “But now it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late, Corey.” It’s a dumb thing to say. I don’t know why I said it.
He jerks his head back, his eyes flare. “And maybe, Sylvia, sometimes it is too late.” He jumps up, tosses a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Maybe sometimes it is.”
He turns on his heel and stalks off, leaving me stunned and confused and holding my head in my hands, chastising myself for saying it. I don’t know what he’s talking about and I’m not sure I want to know. The truth is, I’m afraid to know.
“So this is where you’re hiding out.”
I look up at J. B. and smile. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” I say, admiring his salon hairstyle, his clothes, worn to perfection like a model in GQ magazine. He grins and sits down across from me.
“Some guy almost knocked me over when I came in the door.”
“He was with me.”
“What’d you do to him to make him run out of here like a bat out of hell?”
I laugh. It feels good to laugh. “It’s a long story,” I say.
“I’ll take the short version.”
“His name is Corey Cramer. He’s the son of a man I knew a long time ago. I just met him tonight.”
J. B. raises his eyebrows. “And?”
“His father’s name was Norton.”
“And?”
“I was in love with him.”
He grins.
“It’s complicated. I’ll tell you about it sometime. So, what happened? I saved you a seat at the memorial.”
“Got caught up with another angle for my story.”
“What story?”
“It’s complicated. I’ll tell you about it sometime.” His back-at-you teasing makes me laugh again. “So what’s with this Corey guy? Why’s he so pissed off?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did but I probably never will.”
SIX
1984
For weeks, Norton and I stubbornly performed, like a memorized script, our different interpretations about what I’d done at the women’s peace camp. We finally closed down the show when the fissure between us grew so wide we feared we’d never find our way back to each other. But that didn’t mean the conflict was resolved, only that it went underground. Until the night of our affinity group meeting, when it bubbled to the surface and brought us another step closer to the end.
The seven of us met at my apartment to prepare for going on trial. All seventy-eight of the folks who were arrested at Nectaral headquarters on Good Friday had pleaded not guilty to trespassing and had requested trials, which would have jammed up the court docket for a year and a half. So the city attorney’s office had agreed that we could go on trial in our affinity groups. Ours was scheduled for November, and this was our first planning meeting.
Norton came early. “I’m really looking forward to this,” I said. Our trial was an opportunity for me to atone for losing control in New York, a chance to prove that I was able to channel my passion in a thoughtful way. But I didn’t tell him that. I knew he still didn’t think I had anything to atone for.
I hugged him, and felt his body pull away ever so slightly. “There’s beer in the fridge. You can help me put out the snacks.”
He seemed distracted and his feet dragged. I noticed a slight weave to his step as he headed for the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of beer, then emptied a box of crackers into the basket on the table. Moving more slowly than usual, he tucked the bottle under his arm, picked up the basket and a plate of cheese slices, and went to the living room. I followed with a tray of wine, beer, and glasses and set them on my old chipped coffee table.
I patted the space next to me on my faux-leather couch. “A little snuggle before the others get here?”
He didn’t answer, just walked over to the pulpit chair next to the couch. I didn’t recall him ever sitting in it before. Nor had I ever seen him look this anguished. Tormented, actually. He lowered himself down on the red velvet cushion and pressed his back against the elaborately carved wood, gripping the left armrest with one hand, a bottle of beer with his right. Then he glanced at me from the corner of his eye.
“What’s wrong, Norton?”
His eyes were moist and he attempted a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Like he was in pain. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. I poured myself a glass of white zinfandel, raised it in a toast to him. He took a swig of beer without raising his bottle first. His hand was trembling. At the sound of a loud knock on the door, his bottle slipped onto his lap and splashed beer onto the red velvet cushion.
I invited the other five affinity group members into the living room, one eye welcoming them with a smile
