These Things Happen by Richard Kramer Read Free Book Online Page A

But I don't. "He's never asked for that before. Not specifically, anyway."
       "I'm here ," he says again. "Last night I couldn't be."
       "I know that."
       "I tried to be."
       "I know that, too," I say. "I always know everything."
       "Is he in trouble?"
       "I don't know. Of course!"
       "Why?"
       "Because all kids are, right?" I say. "Because they're kids."
       He laughs. "That's for sure."
       I do a few inhuman Fosse moves to allow him to get to the dresser. "It's the Innocence Project thing, for school. He defends people, who were executed, who there were questions about. In mute court."
       "Moot."
       I Fosse back, to let him pass to the closet, to our tangle of well-kept shoes. "I beg your pardon?"
       "I believe you mean moot. Not mute. But why would you know?"
       "Well, because I did ," I say. "That's why." I didn't; why doesn't that matter? I count on Kenny to know the difference between moot and mute , and can't ever let him know that. And he does, anyway, I'm sure, because people always do. Which is their secret; so it never ends. "Anyway? He pretends he's a lawyer, he told me all about it."
       "He didn't tell me."
       "You are one!"
       "I know what I am," he says. "So is there anything specifically? I have an insane day, as you can imagine."
       "Specifically," I say, "there's the Rosenbergs."
       "Milton and Shyla? From the Roundabout?
       Milton and Shyla Rosenberg have had the subscription seats next to us for the last five years. Milton never speaks; Shyla is always the one to let us know, as the play ends, how disappointed they are; disappointment, as Lenny says, is its own form of New York power. "The other ones," I say. "From the electric chair."
       "But what is there to talk about? They were guilty."
       "We don't know that."
       "Well, they were guilty of something," he says. "Everyone is. All lawyers know that."
       " Would you have defended them?"
       "Maybe," says Kenny. "If they were bi-curious. I know my niche."
       I see something now. He's funnier, or more than he was, which was not at all. I thought that was hot, when we met, that he wasn't. Everyone I know is funny; I have been drowning in it since theater camp, long ago. And if Kenny's going to be the funny one, who will I be?
       "Anyway," I say, "he and Theo are a defense team. So there's that."
       "Theo," he says. "Does he have any other friends besides Theo?"
       "Of course he does. People like him."
       "It's just Theo's the only one he seems to mention, that's all."
       "Theo's a good kid," I say, as Kenny slips away again. I join him, in the bathroom, where he's just finished shaving. "Turn to me." He does. "You missed a spot." I point, to his absurdly chiseled hero's chin. Wesley has it, too, which I'd never really noticed until he came here; I wonder if Kenny has, if you see yourself like that, in your own kid. Kenny strokes, searches, but his own missed spot hides from him, as it usually does on your own face. So I find it for him, settle my finger there. Then his meets mine, and for a moment I think we both might forget our waiting days and stay home, in the silk dressing gowns we don't have, to kiss occasionally while watching whole fat seasons of F riday Night Lights , to order in sesame noodles in boxes big as cars.
       "Dad?"
       We both jump, gasp, cartoon cats with tails in sockets.
       "Well," Kenny says, in a whisper, "this time I heard him."
       "We're right here, Wes," I say.
       "I know," I hear him say. "I just wanted you guys to know I was in the kitchen if you were looking for me. Not that there are that many options. Ha."
       "Ha?" Kenny says, to me.
    "It's this thing they do," I say. "It's the new laughing."
    "We're coming," I call to Wesley.
    "Awesome!" he calls back.
       "Why does he have to say that?" says Kenny. "What's become of hyperbole?"
       " Ah, liaisons . . ." I sing, suddenly Madame