You Are Not a Stranger Here - Adam Haslett [6]
“We can’t stay here,” Graham says as I flip my shoes across the room.
His voice is disconsolate. He seems to have lost his animation of a moment ago, something I don’t think I can afford to do right now: the eviction notices in Baltimore, the collection agencies, the smell of the apartment. “We’re just getting started,” I say quickly.
Graham’s sitting in an armchair across the room and as he bows his head I imagine he’s praying that when he raises it again, things will be different. As a child he used to bring me presents in my study on the days I was leaving for a trip and he’d ask me not to go. They were books he’d found on the shelf and wrapped in Christmas paper.
I pick up the phone on the bedside table and get the front desk. “This is the Hoover Suite calling. I want the number of an agency that will provide us with a young man, someone intelligent and attractive—”
Graham rips the phone from my hand.
“What is it?” I say. His mother was always encouraging me to ask him questions. “What’s it like to be gay, Graham? Why have you never told me?”
He stares at me dumbfounded.
“What? What?” I say.
“How can you ask me that after all this time?”
“I want to understand. Are you in love with this Eric fellow?”
“I thought you were dead! Do you even begin to realize? I thought my own father was dead. You didn’t call for four years but I couldn’t bear to find out, I couldn’t bear to go and find you dead, and so it was like I was a child again and I just hoped there was an excuse. Four years, Dad, and now you just appear and you want to know what it’s like to be gay?”
I run to the refrigerator, where among other things there is a decent Chardonnay, and with the help of a corkscrew I find by the sink I pour us two glasses. Graham doesn’t seem to want his but I set it down beside him anyway.
“Oh, Graham. The phone company in Baltimore’s awful.”
He starts to cry. He looks so young as he weeps, as he did in the driveway of the old house on the afternoon I taught him to ride a bicycle, the dust from the drive settling on his wetted cheek and damp eyelashes later to be rinsed in the warm water of the bath as dusk settled over the field and we listened together to the sound of his mother in the kitchen running water, the murmur of the radio and the stillness of evening in the country, how he seemed to understand it as well as I.
“You know, Graham, they’re constantly overcharging me and then once they take a line out it’s like getting the Red Sea to part to have it reinstalled but in a couple of weeks when the bicycle patent comes through that’ll be behind us, you and Linda and Ernie and I, we’ll all go to London and stay at the Connaught and I’ll show you Regent’s Park where your mother and I rowed a boat on our honeymoon circling the little island there where the ducks all congregate and which was actually a little dirty come to think of it though you don’t really think of ducks as dirty, they look so graceful on the water but in fact—” All of a sudden I don’t believe it myself and I can hear my own voice in the room, hear its dry pitch, and I’ve lost my train of thought and I can’t stop picturing the yard where Graham used to play with his friends by the purple lilac and the apple tree whose knotted branches held the planks of the fort which I was so happy for him to enjoy never having had one myself. He knew me then even in my bravest moments when his mother and siblings were afraid of what they didn’t understand; he would sit on the stool in the crumbling barn watching me cover the chalkboard propped on the fender of the broken Studebaker, diagramming a world of possible objects, the solar vehicles and collapsible homes, our era distilled into its necessary devices, and in the evenings, sprawled on the floor of his room, he’d trace with delicate hands what he