The sun burned low in the hazy sky over the billboards on the other side of Sheridan Square. It was only six-thirty. The party was not scheduled to start until seven, nobody would arrive before eight, but everything was ready. Jack and Michael had come and gone and come again. The undertaker/caterers were very proficient. A drinks table was set up in front of the television. On the terrace outside, under a square canvas umbrella, stood a trestle table covered in a pastel rainbow: green melon slices, orange cheeses, pink ham, and good brown bread. Plates of raw vegetables and bowls of dip were scattered around the rooms. The little kitchen was stuffed to the ceiling with backup food.
“And there we are,” Jack declared when he finished showing it all to Caleb. “Except for the music. Is there anything in particular you wanted? For an outdoor party like this, I suggest a mix of Cole Porter and Gershwin.”
“No music,” said Caleb. “It just makes people loud. It makes them think they’re having fun.”
“You don’t want that?” said Jack.
“No. If they want fun, let it be real fun. None of this fake fun.”
And he laughed. He was not in the right mood to host a birthday party, was he?
The telephone rang: Irene. She was downstairs in a cab with the cake from Cupcake Cafe and needed help in bringing it up. Michael went down. He returned a few minutes later with Irene and a white box as big as a computer monitor. Inside was a cake covered like a gaudy Victorian dress in butter cream flowers.
“Makes my teeth hurt just to look at it,” said Caleb.
“It’s beautiful,” said Irene. “Hmm. No room for candles.”
“Thank God for that.”
Michael carried the cake to the kitchen.
Irene circled the room, then stepped out to the patio. “Wow, Jack. You’ve outdone yourself. This looks great.” She threw an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Didn’t I tell you he was amazing?”
Jack hung his head in mock humility, then went back indoors.
“So beautiful up here,” said Irene. “Aren’t you glad you decided to go ahead with this party?” She looked at Caleb. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
White dress shirt, blue jeans, moccasins, no socks.
“Awfully California,” she said. “It needs a tan to work.”
The buzzer softly buzzed.
“It’s not even seven,” Irene clucked at her watch. “There’s always one. The person who didn’t get the time right or who comes early to monopolize the host.”
They went inside. Michael had already buzzed the guest up.
“So everything’s set?” Irene continued. “You got your food, you got your drinks. All you need are your guests. Oh, and music. Hey, Jack! Put on some music.”
“No music,” Caleb repeated. “I don’t want any music.”
There was a knock at the door, which was already propped open. A small, middle-aged woman stood there, timidly peering in. She had wavy beige hair, no makeup, and a big purse. She looked like a retired schoolteacher. Then she said, “Hello, dear.”
“Mom?”
She was smiling, but it was a confusing, contradictory, I-told-you-so/what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here smile.
Caleb was doubly startled: first that she came, second that he did not immediately recognize her.
“Mom!” he cried. “Oh my God.” He threw his arms around her before he remembered that they weren’t a huggy family. She felt remarkably small and light against him, like a bird. He promptly released her. “Wow. You came. Welcome. Wow.”
“Oh yes. Your old mother came,” she said, glancing around, not quite able to face him. She produced a snippet of laugh like a hiccup.
She looked as small as she had felt, which was stranger than it should have been. But Caleb had not seen her outside the home in years, not since he’d been a child. His mind’s-eye mom was a larger, more timeless figure than this flesh-and-bone woman at his door.
“Mom. This is Irene Jacobs. My agent and manager and one of my best friends.”
“Mrs. Doyle. So glad you could make it.” Irene cut her eyes at Caleb in a satirical look of pity. She didn’t understand that he was overjoyed to have his mother here.
Mom indifferently shook Irene’s hand and looked around the room again. “Where’s your sister?”
“She’s coming,” said Caleb. “She said she had to work late.”
“I thought she’d be helping you with your party.”
“Oh no. I’ve hired people for that.”
She pulled a face like she’d never heard of such a thing. “What time do you think Jess’ll get here?”
“Uh, later.”
“Not too late, I hope. I need to catch the train back to Beacon.”
But Jessie was bringing Henry, which meant she wouldn’t come until after his show, which could be very late.
“I could give her a call and let her know you’re here.”
“No, no, no. I want to surprise her.” She shrugged. “If she doesn’t show, she doesn’t show. But if she hears I came to see you but didn’t wait for her—” She frowned. “Well, you know how your sister can be.”
Yes, he knew. And Jessie was right. The mother-daughter bond was heavier and more tangled than the mother-son bond, even when the son was gay. I have it easy, thought Caleb. But he couldn’t help feeling a little excluded, a little hurt.
He should call Jessie soon, on the sly, so she could visit the party before she picked up Henry and they could send Mom home.
“So this is your new apartment,” said Mom. A wary, querulous tone took hold in her voice.
“Oh yes!” Caleb cheerfully declared. “Let me give you a tour before people start arriving.”
“Your real home.”
He said nothing for a moment, then, “As real as any home can get in New York.”
He showed her the rooms: the kitchen—“Awfully small”—the bedroom—“Not much privacy with that window”—the bathroom—“That old brass is hell to keep clean.” Then he took her into the extra room that was his study. She said nothing for a moment while she stood in front of the wall where a dozen framed photos were hung.
“Where did you get this picture?”
“I can’t remember,” said Caleb. “You don’t like it?”
She was frowning. “Not a good picture of me,” she said. “Not at all. But very nice of your father.”
“I think it’s nice of you both.”
They stood side by side at the beach, Cape May, New Jersey, 1959. Black-and-white, all teeth and tans, they looked so healthy and happy. It was a half-truth, like most family photos, or maybe only a quarter-truth. But a pretty truth, nevertheless.
A few inches over was another beach picture, this one in color: Fire Island, 1987. Two young men in baggies stood arm in arm, grinning. Another half-truth, although on some days Caleb thought this picture was a three-quarter truth.
“And that was Ben,” she said.
“Yes,” said Caleb. “Was.”
He waited for her to say something else, that she missed Ben, or ask if Caleb missed him. Nothing special, just something more.
But she was already looking at the next photo, a color snapshot of a solemn seven-year-old boy sitting on a lawn with a baby in his lap, giving her a bottle. He held the bottle with surprising delicacy, too absorbed in his wide-eyed little sister to notice the camera.
“Oh yes,” said Mom. “You used to adore your sister.”
“I still love Jessie,” he claimed.
She shook her head and sighed. “You would’ve made a wonderful father.” She turned away, looked down at his desk and up at the window. “Nice room. It should be easy writing plays here.”
“It should be,” he said. He led her back out to the living room.
“Is there another floor?”
“Nope. This is it. And the terrace outside.”
“This is the place you bought?” She sounded critical again.
“That’s right.”
They went up the two steps to the French doors.
“Ohhhh!”
Caleb thought she was appreciating the view, but no, she was looking at the table of food.
“I won’t ask how much that cost.”
She kept disappointing him, this mother he loved. She sounded trivial and shallow. But she was distracted today, her attention off.
He led her around the corner of the L-shaped terrace. The low skyline to the west was a jumble of billboards, old water tanks, and TV antennas. Pieces of sun were already flaring in a few windows of the flinty apartment building overhead.
“Noisy here. How do you sleep at night?”
“You stop hearing it.”
She looked down. She stood a good three feet back from the parapet. “People,” she said. “So many people.”
He wanted to connect with her, but he didn’t know how. She had come to him today and he was touched, moved, but he didn’t know what to say to her.
“There you are!” a raspy male voice called out.
Caleb turned and saw a man come toward them: Daniel Broca.
“Happy birthday,” he said in a harsh grumble that made it sound like a curse.
He was a short, proud, unhappy man in his fifties. He had failed as a playwright but succeeded as a college teacher. His students adored him, but Broca was prouder of his failure.
“Daniel. This is my mother. Mom. My friend Daniel Broca.”
He brusquely nodded at her. “I see I’m the first one here.” He thrust a gift-wrapped package at Caleb. “Take it. I know you told us not to bring presents but I brought one anyway.”
“Oh, uh, thank you. I’ll open it later?”
“Hmmm.” Broca’s mouth tightened, as if this were an insult but one he would try to overlook. “Nice penthouse.”
“You haven’t been here?”
“No. You never invited me to one of your parties.”
“I’ve never given a party.”
“Still. Nice place. You should enjoy it while it lasts. After that awful review in the Times.”
“It was an awful review,” his mother agreed.
“But just like the Times,” Broca lectured her. “They make you a success, then turn around and ruin you.”
“I’m not ruined,” said Caleb.
In certain moods, Caleb actually enjoyed Broca’s company. His general bleakness made Caleb feel sunny and good-humored. But not tonight, and not with his mother.
“They’re just jealous,” she said. “All those nobody critics.”
“But the Times is the worst,” Broca argued. “Because they’re the most corrupt. And the most stupid. Kenneth Prager, the man who slammed Chaos Theory, is the worst of the worst.”
Caleb needed to get his mother away from Broca, but he also needed to call Jess. If he could get Jessie here soon, then Mom could go home and he could stop worrying about her.
“Irene?” he called. “Could you come out here?” Irene knew how to jolly Broca. Caleb could turn the pair over to her.
“So where are all your other friends?” asked Mom. “What time does your party start?”
“Right now,” said Broca. “Maybe they’re not coming. Maybe they feel bad about not liking your play. Let me say again: I loved it. I think it’s the best thing you ever wrote.”
“I know, Daniel. Thanks.” He turned to his mother. “People will come,” he assured her. “It’s early yet. Some don’t like to go out in daylight. And others are in plays. It is a work night.”
“Oh yeah,” Broca agreed. “People will come. If not for your son, then for the free food and liquor.”
Caleb smiled and turned around again. “Irene!”