Almost Like Being in Love (30 page)

“What happened in Albany?” scribbled across his forehead all through dinner—and if I didn’t fill him in pronto, it would only be a matter of time before he blurted it out in front of an audience.

“Because midlife decisions don’t happen that fast,” I retorted, trying to keep my voice down. Over by the patio, Jody had ensnared my boyfriend’s undivided attention by mapping out Clayton’s entire housing development on the back of a takeout menu from the Shanghai Palace (which, like everything else Jody touched, only took him ten minutes to complete). So both of them were unaware that the future of the United States Constitution was being resolved on a $199 swing set from Toys “R”

Us.

“I made a midlife decision once,” Noah informed me confidently.

“No, you didn’t. Trust me.”

“Did too,” he insisted. “And it’s simple. Do you
want
to get elected?” I should have known he was going to pull a stunt like that. I
despise
cross-examination—especially by someone less than forty-six inches tall.

“Yes,” I finally conceded, complying with the terms of the ambush.

“Then you’re a lowlife for not telling them you’ll do it.”

With his opinion on my candidacy now entered into the record, we moved along to the campaign issues. To my immense relief, he approved of my position on practically all of them—AIDS funding, housing discrimination, school subsidies, and free ice cream for kids. (Okay, so I made that one up. But a vote is a vote. Lyndon Johnson would have done the same thing.) The only matter that troubled him was the Freedom to Marry initiative. I knew we were in for a filibuster because he jammed his feet into the ground, skidded to a halt, and glanced up at me with his father’s eyes.

“They won’t let you and Clayton get married, right?” he asked pensively, collecting the pertinent facts.

“Right.”

“And a long time ago, they wouldn’t let Rosa Parks sit in a bus either—right?” I could see where this was going and I loved him for it.

“Right.”

“And now everybody thinks the people who arrested her were skanks, right?”

“Right.”

Noah shrugged and swung himself into the sky again. As far as he was concerned, it was an open-and-shut case.

“So how come they don’t know that in a hundred years we’ll think the same things about the skanky guys who won’t let you get married?” Since there was no practical answer, I stopped looking for one and hugged him instead. He had it coming.

Then we hit the jungle gym.

That
’s what made Travis so special. While the rest of us were learning the
conventional crap that comes with growing up, he never forgot that we all
start out like Noah. Equations are a lot simpler that way.

‚What happens when we go to college?‛ I asked him nervously. ‚Is that the
end of us?‛ He glanced up from my chest and frowned as only Travis could
frown.

‚Do you love me?‛ he countered.

‚Down to my toes.‛

‚Then shut up.‛

Our Bedroom in Utica

costarring Craig and Clayton

Three-thirty in the morning. The breeze from the Mohawk fluttered past the flimsy curtains and brushed over our still bodies. Tonight we were sleeping back-to-front; Clayton had an arm wrapped around my chest and a cheek in the hollow of my neck, while his steady breathing syncopated our heartbeats into a single cadence. Ever since we met, our bed’s been a place where we can find each other again whenever we lose our way—but now I was wide awake and on my own.

Clayton

Travis

Makes me feel safe.

Walked me through the scary

parts.

Pulls me up short if I need it.

Allowed me to make my own

mistakes.

Loves the things I am.

Loved the things I’m not.

Doesn’t want to lose me.

Wasn’t afraid to let me go.

I’m almost 39. I’ve won eighteen out of twenty-one cases. I have a best
friend who trades all her secrets with me, I’ve found an 11-year-old boy who
knows how to keep me on the straight-and-narrow, and I’ve loved two men
who’ve both loved me back.

It’ll all work out. I must be doing something right.

NEW YORK STATE DEMOCRATIC COMMITTEE

ALBANY HEADQUARTERS

151 STATE STREET

ALBANY, NEW YORK 12207

June 8, 1998

VIA MESSENGER

Craig S. McKenna, Esq.

McKenna & Webb

118 Congress Park, Suite 407

Saratoga Springs, New York 12866

Dear Craig:

I went ahead and had the enclosed bumper stickers made up for your approval. If it appears that I’m attempting to bribe you, I am.

Looking forward to your decision.

Best,

Wayne Duvall

McKENNA

STATE ASSEMBLY

Craig McKenna

Attorney notes

Mother Machree, look what happened to Mabel.

10

Travis

THE PERILOUS JOURNEY OF TRAVIS PUCKETT

PART II

Travis and A.J. in a Black Buick named

Robert Mitchum

Parnell Street to I-70

I’d made up my mind in the courtroom when she hadn’t slugged the judge for calling her calves’ liver crappy: I wanted A.J. to come to Saratoga Springs with me. Partly because there was a distinct possibility I might need a shoulder to cry on, and partly because I already missed her. Okay, so maybe we’d only known each other for forty-eight hours and maybe they’d been weird ones—but in a memory-book kind of way.

“Baby’s First Tooth.” “Baby’s First Haircut.” “Baby’s First Bail Bond.” Besides, where was I going to find anybody else to call me Beaver?

“Pancakes or Rice Krispies, Beav?” she asked, dumping me out of bed.

“Supplies are limited. Who knew there’d be a fugitive on my couch?”

I had no idea she was on the verge of cracking at breakfast when I did fifteen minutes on kissing Craig in the rain. Had I known, I’d have pulled a finale out of my ass by reenacting
Brigadoon
too.

“Oh God,” she sighed, biting into an onion bagel dreamily. “Just like Julie Harris and James Dean in the bean field.” But she wasn’t quite ready to crumble yet. First she whipped up six chicken-and-egg sandwiches '“That should last you through Ohio”(, and then she insisted I count out my traveler’s checks and put them in a safe place.

'“Anywhere but your crotch. Why hand them a jackpot for feeling you up?”(
That’s
it
? What about ‚Hey, Beaver, why don’t I go with you?‛ Okay.

This may require some heavier artillery.
So I slipped on my backpack, hugged her bravely, and stepped out onto Parnell Street like Little Boy Lost.

“Call me if you get into any trouble,” she insisted. “I mean it. And don’t climb out of any windows.”
This isn’t working
, I thought to myself.

Try waving timidly
. That didn’t do the trick either—but once I’d determined that she was watching me from a window, I adjusted my posture so that my shoulders were slightly stooped and forlorn. Few are resilient enough to resist the pathos. Regrettably, A.J. was among them.

The freeway was only ten blocks to the west, but my thumb and I hadn’t been at the on-ramp for more than five minutes before the Buick came screeching around the corner with a suitcase in the backseat.

“Don’t say a fucking word,” she snapped, throwing open the door while the engine idled. “Just get in.” And I would have followed her orders gleefully—had Jiminy Cricket not chosen that moment to crawl out of my pocket and sing the conscience song.

“You knew this was a setup, right?” I confessed hesitantly.

“Duh,” she said. “But the shoulder thing was an artful touch.”

St. Louis to Indianapolis

It was only 246 miles, but we still managed to get into four fights covering the following issues: broken red lines on a road map '“It means surface streets.” “It means highway under construction—schmuck.”(, who got the window seat at Denny’s '“I said, ‘Touch black, no back’ first.”

“And you actually consider that
binding
?”); the two little brats on
Family
Affair
'“Buffy was less obnoxious.” “According to what authority? They both should have been on Ritalin.”(; and which state is underneath Cincinnati '“It’s one of the Virginias. They’d never tolerate anything like Kentucky.” “This isn’t a judgment call!”(. In between rounds, Gordo paged us three times, so we called him back on A.J.’s cell phone.

“How badly do you need Beaver’s half of the rent?” she inquired grimly of the mouthpiece. “Because he may not be alive much longer.”

“Give me that,” I barked, grabbing the receiver as Terre Haute whizzed past the windshield. “Gordo, go into my room, get my atlas, and tell her where Wyoming is. She thinks I’m trying to fake her out with Colorado.”

“Slow down,” he replied 'on unlimited roaming air time(. “I’m still missing a couple of pieces. How did you get her to say yes? Was it the droopy head or the shoulder thing?” In the background, I could hear him typing. How much of a dumbbell did he think I was?

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“Estimated taxes,” he lied deftly. “Let me talk to A.J.”

For the next three counties, they were inseparable. She told him about the gossip she’d engendered when she’d bought her first brassiere, and he countered with a similar story involving a jockstrap labeled

“Boys XL.” 'Bullshit, Gordo. It was a medium. I remember the box.) Finally, I began to feel like a third wheel with big ears.

“Should I go outside and play?” I whispered.

“Please,” she retorted, covering the mouthpiece and pointing to the fast lane.

Indianapolis to Fairmount

I learned the following information for which I have absolutely no use whatsoever: James Dean’s middle name was Byron, his mother died when he was 8, he went to school in Santa Monica right around the corner from me and Gordo, and on suitable occasions he took it up the ass. Somehow the mystique eluded me, but for A.J.’s sake, I tried to be tactful.

“Can’t you just imagine making love to him?” she sighed.

“I’d rather blow a goat.”

“Get out of my car.”

We stopped by a convenience store in Fairmount so she could pick up a pack of Chesterfields to put on his grave. (Offhand, I could count at least fifteen hundred things wrong with this scenario, but since she was holding hostage a similar list about people who get erections from root canals, I kept my mouth shut.) On our way to the cemetery, she let me pop my Sweet Charity tape into the cassette deck—a circumstance not normally associated with central Indiana. However, as neither of us owned the soundtrack to Deliverance, we made do with what we had.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked as she stared quietly at the pale red tombstone. JAMES B. DEAN: 1931–1955.

“Toby,” she mumbled, in a voice that was barely audible. “Beav, do you think there’s something wrong with carrying a torch for eleven years?”

Obviously, she needed an arm around her shoulder just then, so she got one.

“No,” I assured her. “But before you take my word for it, consider the source.”

Then we hopped back into Robert Mitchum and talked about Gordo for ninety-four miles.

Fairmount to Columbus

I knew something was brewing when she began picking on my clothes. First the chinos were “antediluvian,” then the loafers were

“aboriginal,” and finally the denim shirt was dismissed as “rat shit.”

“You dress like Cybill Shepherd,” she informed me without even a whiff of diplomacy. “What the hell is Craig going to think—that you’ve schlepped three thousand miles to clean his house?” So I reminded her of my recently deceased Wells Fargo bank balance, the T-bill I’m not allowed to touch, and the rest of my Cannery Row credentials. After that, I assumed the conversation was concluded. I was wrong.
How did
she find out about the Neiman-Marcus credit card?!

“Hand it over,” she commanded crisply, like Patton before Sicily.

“We’re stopping in Columbus.”

The damage
: Three form-fitting tank tops, five Versace shirts '“Save the blue-and-white striped one for Craig. Even I’d fuck you in that.”(, eight pairs of Calvin Klein bikini briefs that would have resulted in federal prosecution had they been sent through the mails thirty years earlier, cowboy boots and a wrangler belt (this has got to be a fetish talking), two pairs of Reeboks with racing stripes on them, Armani sunglasses, a tiny gold earring and a pierced left lobe '“Over my dead body.” “That can be arranged.”(, and three pairs of 501s with the button fly. '“Judging by all available evidence, you’ve got an ass that’s worth showcasing. So why don’t you?”( My waist is a 30. The jeans are a 28.

When I fart, the Reeboks blow off.

Columbus to Pittsburgh

The last purchase made was a digital calculator marked down to $89

that I utilized solely to figure out the bounty on my head once Neiman-Marcus turned me over to Jabba the Hutt.

“There’s a comma in this!” I shrieked as we crossed the Pennsylvania border. “$1,737.49! Are you out of your mind?! How am I supposed to pay these people?!”

“I’ll show you,” she said evenly, holding out a palm. “Let me see it.” So I gave it to her and she threw it out the window.

“That’s how. Now if you’re going to play Mame, shut up and do it.

You’ve got fifteen minutes before she gets her tits bumped for Chuck Berry.”

Robert Mitchum didn’t find Pittsburgh until 3:30 in the morning, and it was another hour before I stepped out of the Holiday Inn shower that I’d been daydreaming about since Muncie. But our itinerary wasn’t quite finished yet. With a towel over my head and still humming “We Need a Little Christmas,” I suddenly heard what sounded like gargling coming