okay?"
I am often asked that. "Everything's fine."
The door opens. Laughing gay guys come in, with scarves, looking like a photograph of laughing gay guys with scarves. They laugh harder when they see George, and wave to him. I can almost sense him start to whir, like one of the Japanese robots Theo's dad collects. George, when he needs to, can be Delightful Guy Robot, or Funny Guy Robot; any kind people need. He's not that way upstairs, though, with us. Up there, he's more just George.
"Hey," he says, "want to eat down here? Armando's got those pork chops you like, with the sage butter—"
"George—"
"—From that green pig farm, where the pig signs a release. And there's burrata, and those potatoes you like—"
"Theo won," I say. He looks puzzled. "The election? It was today?"
"He did?" He high-fives me, which I think he thinks I like; I'm waiting for the right time to tell him I find it vaguely annoying and he doesn't do it right, anyway. "Congratulations, Wes!"
"Me? Why?"
"You worked your ass off for him. You don't give yourself credit, you're hard on yourself—"
"Please don't say what you're going to say next, which is that you don't have a right to say that. Which maybe I don't have a right to say to you. It's just that when you do say stuff, it's okay with me, really, because it's never about finding me basically extremely disappointing. "
"Deal," George says.
"But here's the thing," I say. "I need to talk to you guys, about some stuff."
"Is it urgent?"
" Semi-urgent."
"You sure everything's okay? Should I call your mom, or dad—"
George always wants to know if he should call my mom or dad. "No. Really. I told you about the Innocence Project, right? Me and Theo are a defense team, and we got assigned these guys the Rosenbergs. I just wanted to get both your feelings about them. Did they, didn't they, America, hysteria."
"I just hope you don't want me to say smart things. Your dad's the brilliant genius, with opinions. I recite specials."
"You think he's a brilliant genius?" Everyone says this about him, along with remarks on the extent of his humanity. I'm surprised to hear George say it, though. "Does he think that about you?"
He laughs. "Come on. Would you?"
"You're so hard on yourself," I say.
"Hey," he says, "it's a living. Does your dad know about this?"
"I left voice mails, and I texted."
"I'll send dinner up," he says. "So you guys can have privacy." More laughing guys with scarves come in. George laughs, in preparation; that's a trick of his; he says people always like to think you've just heard something funny, and might share it with them. "Pray for me," he says, as he always does, just before he hits the floor.
I stop him, though. "It's not just school I need to talk about."
"Okay."
"And I need you both. If you can."
Lenny passes, his arms full of little pumpkins, looking confused. "Isn't Ruth Gordon dead?"
"Of course she is," George says.
"She's reserved for ten fifteen," says Lenny.
"You're busy," I say to George. "So—"
"Hey," he says, not letting me finish, turning his back to all the waving guys in scarves. "I'm there."
So I climb the stairs, passing 2A, where the Galligan girls live. They never got married and both have osteoporosis, which George says means if they fall they could snap, like chopsticks. For fifty-six years they've been ushers at the Majestic Theatre, around the corner, where they've never missed a show. In 3A is Henry, who writes children's musicals and is into leather. His sister committed suicide, so he's bringing up his niece, Hannah; my dad went to court to make sure it all worked out. And it did, of course; they had my dad. Hannah screams at Henry all the time; she sort of sucks at bonding, apparently.
And then there's us, on the top floor, the fourth. As I let myself in the first thing I see is that the one light that's on shines on a bowl of grapes, the kind that look dusty but are actually as nature intended. I wonder if this is a not-so-subtle reminder that I have a paper due next week on The Grapes of Wrath, which seems to obsess everyone in my orbit but me. Mr. Frechette is making us read a term's worth of books that will make us better people, as he feels the bitter, sarcastic irony that he often hears from us is something you should only come to in the autumn of your years, to use his words, when you have earned it from your swim in the harsh sea of life.
I take a grape, the kind I hate; with seeds. As I spit them out the phone rings.
"That's Dad," I tell the air, and I'm right.
"Wesley?"
"Hey, Dad."
"Wesley?" he says again; people are always saying my name again. "I got your voice mail. Is everything all right?"
He asks this every day, like he's waiting for something not to be. My mom's the same, unlike Ben and George, who assume things are good unless you bleed or throw up in front of them.
"Basically."
" 'Basically'? What does that— shit, I'm in a bad spot. Hello? Wesley?"
He's sort of shouting now, the way people do in old movies when they're calling long distance. Maybe he thinks shouting makes bad spots good.
"I'm here, Dad."
"So when you say, 'basically,' what do you mean?"
"Well," I say, feeling sort of angry, suddenly, "we're still fighting useless wars, our so-called system is like totally broken, and one in fifty kids in America is homeless." I get like this, sometimes. I can't help it; certain things just disturb me. "So, for the sake of argument, one might say, when I say, 'basically,' I mean—"
"Are you getting shit at school?"
I laugh, in a fairly weary way. "Ha! Why would I?"
He doesn't say anything. I don't know if he's in a bad spot again, or thinking. Then I hear him.
"Because of us. Because we're—"
He wants to say gay. He says gay all the time, when he's talking
about a group of people. When it comes to himself, though, he always stops right before the word.
"I'm okay, Dad."
"You're sure? Because George just called. He said you need to talk, to both of us?"
