A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [90]
“Of course,” Rob answered.
“You dated . . .”
“Amy Shulkind. Only because Bridget set us up. She was always doing that. Matchmaking.” Rob took a sip of coffee. “In the beginning you hope it isn’t so,” he added. “I don’t know anyone who’s glad of it as a boy.” He set his cup on the coffee table and glanced at a copy of The New Yorker. “So what about you, Branch? When did it all happen for you?”
“Sorry?”
“Find yourself. When did you know who you were?” Rob opened the magazine, looked at a cartoon.
“That’s a tough one,” Harrison said. “Not sure I’m there yet.”
“Still an existentialist at heart?” Rob asked, looking up. “That’s the one good thing about being gay. It tends to clarify everything in a hurry. Well, not the only good thing.”
“Hope not,” Harrison said.
“You’ve got a family,” Rob said, closing the magazine.
“I do. And I suppose it’s not really fair of me to pretend I don’t know where I’m at. I have tremendous clarity about my boys.”
“The one bad thing about being gay,” Rob said, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Not the only bad thing,” Harrison echoed lightly.
“No.”
“I imagine it’s the music that defines you now,” Harrison added, wishing very much that he had listened to one of Rob’s CDs before coming here.
“That . . . and Josh . . . and, I don’t know . . .” He smiled. “The Red Sox.”
“You always were a masochistic son of a bitch.”
“You wait.”
“Wait what? Another seventy, eighty years?”
“The Cubs aren’t exactly red-hot.”
“They ran out of gas,” Harrison said. “Sammy’s monster year and Leiber’s gutsy performance just weren’t enough.”
“Hey,” a voice called from the doorway. Bill stood in a bright blue parka and hiking boots.
“Billy,” Rob said. “What’s up?”
“We’re on for a game after all.”
Rob glanced out the window. “In this?”
“Snow-ball,” Bill said, holding up a Wiffle ball and yellow plastic bat. “Jerry’s idea. He said he once played snow-golf in Aspen, took him forty-five minutes to finish the first hole.”
“Aspen,” Harrison said.
“Look,” Bill pleaded, “if I have to sit around all day waiting for this wedding, I’ll go nuts.”
“Okay, I’m in,” Rob said.
“You’re umping,” Bill said, pointing. “We’ve got the bases covered, as they say. Nora had some Frisbees we can use. Problem is,” he added, holding up the plastic ball, “this is white.”
Harrison thought a minute. “I might have an idea,” he said.
“We’re out front when you’re ready.”
Harrison searched for the boy he’d seen the day before and found him in the dining room wearing a North Face fleece. He apologized to the parents for interrupting their breakfast and asked the boy if he still had the Magic Markers he’d been using the day before at the table. Harrison explained the game of snow-ball and invited the boy and the father to join them. As an afterthought, he invited the wife as well. She sighed and said a few minutes alone in the library would be heaven.
When Harrison returned to the hallway in his jacket and sneakers, the boy was already waiting for him with the box of markers. His father, he said, would follow in a minute. Harrison selected neon green. The boy seemed struck dumb with the gravity of being asked to play ball with grown men, and Harrison tried to draw him out—Are you having a good time here? Have you ever played Little League? Cool jacket . . . did you get that yesterday?—to little avail.
The two headed out the door and found Bill on a level bit of snow-covered lawn near the parking lot. Harrison brandished the marker, and Bill gave him the thumbs-up. Harrison colored the ball as best he could, getting nearly as much ink on his fingers as he did on the ball. He wondered idly if it would come off in time for the wedding.
“Okay, let’s see,” Bill said when everyone was assembled. “Harrison, you and Jerry and . . . what’s your name?” he asked the boy.
“Michael,” the boy said.
“Hi, Michael, I’m Bill.” Bill walked toward the boy’s father and held out his hand.
“Peter,” the father said, shaking it.
“Okay, great,” Bill said, turning to the