These Things Happen by Richard Kramer Read Free Book Online

had a Classic Six on West End Avenue, with Wesley staying in the maid's room off the kitchen? We were never noisy to begin with, and after ten years together maybe we're never going to be. But now, in the dark, we're completely silent, stone saints atop our own tombs; we don't want Wesley to hear — words, moans, anything.
       We all stoop at once, bumping our heads like Stooges, to retrieve the towel so Kenny can hide his shame.
       Wesley wins, holds the towel out to Kenny. "Sorry, Dad," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you."
       Kenny's always a bit stunned, it seems, to find Wesley around the apartment. "I just forgot, I guess. And you know how I am in the morning."
       "I don't, actually. How are you?"
       Kenny laughs. "George will tell you."
       "I've never seen this man before," I say.
       "But this morning," says Kenny, pulling the towel a little higher, "I'm right here."
       "I can see that, Dad."
       "I'm sorry about last night."
       He looks to me, but I look away; it's not about me.
       "I'm sure you helped, Dad," Wesley says. "The people you were helping, that is."
       He looks to me again, and this time I feel a little merciful; we all have to get past this point, dripping Kenny, smelly Wesley, adjectival me. "Trannies," I say. "It was their hoedown night."
       Wesley laughs— more than a ha this time— and Kenny does, too; I've delighted us all, for the moment, so maybe we're all okay.
       "I can't say that word," Wesley says, "but George can?"
       "George is different," I say, even though I'm George. "There's something . . . delicate about him, something— strange ."
       "And I Googled you on my phone," Wesley tells Kenny. "You were like everywhere."
       "And nowhere," says Kenny.
       "Anyway," Wesley says, "I'm going to get us all some marvelous muffins, since I ate them all."
       "Excuse me?" Kenny says.
       "George can explain, Dad. Any special requests?"
       I assume a slight accent, shrug, become the Never Satisfied New York Lady; this is a favorite of Wesley's, and he can do it pretty well himself. "For me, just bran," I say. "I need a b.m. before my volunteer work. But I'm not expecting miracles."
       Wesley laughs. Kenny looks puzzled. "What are you guys talking about?" he asks.
       "I'll explain," I say. "You get dressed." I turn back to Wesley. "And get a few pumpkin ones, for the season. You need money?"
       "My treat," he says, and as soon as I hear the front door close I leap at Kenny; I've waited too long for his consciousness, and I know I don't have much time until the crane comes to the window, to drop us all into our days. "Did you hear him?" I ask.
       "Who?" he says, which tells me he didn't.
       "Wesley," I whisper, as if he were in the hallway, with a glass pressed to our door.
       "Hear him when?"
       "Last night," I say, looking to the ceiling; his eyes follow mine. "Twenty after 2. Pacing. And circling."
       "What was he doing up there?"
       "How do I know?"
       "He tells you things," Kenny says. He slips into the bathroom, where pictures of me in youthful triumph (Tom in Glass Menagerie , Tom in Grapes of Wrath , young Tom Edison in a tour of a children' s-theater musical) cover every inch of flaking wall.
       "Not at twenty after 2, he doesn't," I say.
       "Well, he shouldn't be up there then, should he?"
       "Of course not," I tell the door. "It's a school night. Or a school middle of the night, in this case."
       "And you didn't go get him? Is it even safe?"
       He's back, and seems to be looking at me; anyone observing us, invisibly, would think, He's there. But I know he's not, that he's steeling himself to make today's Gay Statement. I should let him be, so he can do his good, but I can't, not yet. Because I'm worried for Wesley, last night's Sandman; I worry for boys on roofs. "He wants to talk to us," I say.
       "I'm here."
        No, you're not , I want to say.