The sun rose and the birds sang louder. There was a riot of birdsong. One would never guess so many birds lived down here, hidden in the trees behind the cafés and stores and tenement buildings.
An early Saturday morning in New York can be so beautiful, especially when you know that a man wasn’t killed and your mother won’t be going to jail—not this week anyway. Caleb strolled down Seventh Avenue with Henry. They had been together long enough, and liked each other well enough, that they could be companionably silent. They were the only pedestrians in sight, except for a young woman walking a fat white bulldog wheezing like an asthmatic pig. An isolated handful of cars and trucks roared down the wide avenue.
“What a night,” said Henry. “What a drama. ‘We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.’”
“Were you ever fat enough to play Falstaff?”
“No. But it’d be lovely, wouldn’t it? To forget about exercise for a few months? Get fat in the name of art? Which way is uptown? I should be going home.”
“You can catch a cab here and it’ll turn around,” said Caleb.
But the avenue was deserted at the moment.
“How remarkable,” said Henry. “I can’t remember the last time I witnessed daybreak sober. When I wasn’t stumbling out of a club with some pretty piece of tail. But here I am with a clear head, going home alone. It makes one feel very virtuous. Or very old.”
“Too bad I have a full house,” said Caleb. “Or I might invite you home with me.”
Henry stared at Caleb. “Oh. I see. You’re kidding.”
“I am and I’m not.” Caleb was kidding until he saw that Henry took him seriously. And suddenly Caleb was interested. He shrugged. “We’ve shared everything else,” he admitted.
“We certainly have.” He looked Caleb up and down, brazen and satirical, yet Caleb felt a sexual shiver, as if goosed. “Too bad I have a matinee today.”
“And I have a full house,” Caleb repeated.
“And I don’t think we’re each other’s type.”
“We’d probably just lie in bed and talk.”
Henry produced a sly grin. “We could ask Toby to join us.”
Caleb froze. Then he burst out laughing. “Uh-uh. Sorry. That’s way too sophisticated for me.”
“Oh well,” said Henry sweetly. “Just an idea. But thank you for asking. It’s always nice to be asked. Oh look. Here comes a taxi.”
He stepped off the curb and waved. A block away, a lone cab saw him and swung toward their side of the street.
Henry turned to Caleb. “This has been an adventure. I’m glad we were able to share it.” And he stepped back up on the curb with one foot, lifting his face into Caleb’s face, and kissed him, hard.
It was a deep kiss in broad daylight, full of tongue and teeth.
The cab stood by, waiting.
Henry released him and dropped back down to the gutter, grinning. Then he jumped into the cab and drove away.
Caleb remained at the curb, catching his breath, then laughing. Did Henry’s kiss say “Let’s fuck” or simply “Fuck it”? Probably the latter, which was fine with Caleb. He resumed his walk home.
He liked Henry. He liked him very much. Jessie was right. Henry was not a bad fellow. But like all actors, the successful ones anyway, he was a people pleaser. So much so that Caleb wondered if he should trust his liking of him. Henry meant to win Caleb over, and Caleb was won. It had been fun to flirt. Caleb did not regret flirting. But he was relieved that he and Hamlet would not be seeing each other naked anytime soon.
Caleb entered his elevator, the door closed, and he remembered everything else. He had no business being happy. Nothing was settled yet. So much was left unresolved. God only knows what Dr. Chin would say when he saw her on Monday. And she thought that he was done with Kenneth Prager.
The elevator arrived. He dreaded what he’d find: the mess of the party, his mother and sister fighting, something awful. He trudged up the flight of stairs, unlocked his door, and—
The place was spotless. It was cleaner than it was before the party. It was quiet, so quiet that it felt haunted. But not haunted by ghosts. He heard people sleeping.
He stepped gently over the floor, afraid to disturb the peace. Snores came from the other side of the living room, not his bedroom but his office. If all the animals were asleep, then he could go to sleep too. He could wait until later to deal with the messes.
He heard a kitchen drawer grind shut. He turned the corner.
She stood in the kitchen, his mother. She was not startled; she’d heard him come in. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I was looking for warm milk or beer or something to help me doze off.”
Her face looked vague and colorless without its lipstick. She was wearing his robe, which swam on her. She shyly wrapped it tighter around her waist. Under the robe was a ratty T-shirt with a picture of Claire Wade.
“I could make some chamomile tea,” he said. “I could use some myself.” He went over to the sink and began to fill the kettle.
They had so much to say to each other. He didn’t know where to begin. So he said, “Who’s snoring? Is that Jessie’s friend Frank?”
“No. It’s Jessie. You didn’t know your sister snores?”
“She’s just full of surprises, isn’t she?”
“Don’t make fun of your sister.”
“I didn’t mean anything bad. She’s surprising in a good way. We don’t have to stand. Let’s sit while we wait for the water to boil.”
They went out to the living room. The sofa was back in its place facing the television. They settled into opposite corners.
“How’re you doing?” he asked. “You okay?”
“You don’t have to worry about me. Your sister got an earful of that. A pity party for myself. But I was exhausted. I feel better now. I’m more myself again. Even though I’m having the damnedest time falling asleep in a strange bed.”
Caleb wondered what Jessie had heard. They knew two very different sides of Mom. If she got under Jessie’s skin more than she got under his, Jessie was also closer to their mother than Caleb. He envied her the knowledge if not the aggravation.
He noticed something lodged in the wood by his shoe, like a misplaced nail. It was a bullet. It burrowed in the varnished wood, as if trying to hide. It was ludicrous to pretend nothing extraordinary had happened here. But where to begin?
“I know things got out of hand last night,” said Caleb. “But I can’t help feeling touched by what you did. I never knew my work meant so much to you.” It was not really about his “work,” but he didn’t know how else to say it.
She made a face at him, a skeptical grimace. “It was very stupid of me. Very foolish.”
“I know. But nobody got killed. So it was a beautiful gesture.”
“Yes. It’ll make a very funny story,” she bitterly declared. “One that you’ll be telling your friends for years and years.”
“Why not? I like funny stories. So do you.”
“Not when I’m in them!”
The kettle whistled. Caleb jumped up and escaped to the kitchen. He busied himself with the tea: setting bags in the mugs, pouring the hot water, letting the bags steep.
He didn’t know what else to say to her. He didn’t know yet what needed to be said. It would take hours spread out over weeks and months. All he really wanted to tell her this morning was: Thank you, I love you, Are you okay?
He thought that he’d said those things already.