“You think Chris is odd?”
“I refuse to discuss anyone else’s children... in front of their parents.”
“But you think something is odd.”
“Actually, Dr. Powers,” Sidney said. “The only one who said anything about odd was you.”
Mark was attractive. But he was thin and his head was large and Irish. When he was solving a problem he stood with it pushed forward and his shoulders hunched, looking so serious that Sidney expected him to say, “We got a really big show tonight. A really big show.”
Mark stared at him and then Sidney said, “Were you wearing that tie when you went to the meeting the other day?”
Mark fingered his red necktie and said, “Uh, yeah.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“Oh, nothing,” Sidney said brightly. He got up and began rummaging through the pantry. “You got Fritos?”
“You hate Fritos.”
“I feel like Fritos today.”
“Speak, Darrow.”
“Ooh,” Sidney winced. “Bringing out the last names.”
“Speak.”
“Well,” Sidney said, “was Rick Howard wearing one? I mean, you probably wouldn’t notice but…”
“He’s the Dean. Of course he had a tie on.”
“But was it red?”
“Well, that I do remember. It was red and what does that have to do with anything, and why do I remember?” Mark mumbled as an afterthought.
“It’s just that,” Sidney said, “and I’ve only heard this: closeted gay men in important positions used to, and maybe they still do, come out to each other by wearing a red necktie. So only they would know. Only, I know this and you don’t so...”
“Rick Howard is not gay!” Mark said with a little too much disbelief.
“Well, he’s forty-five and single and works in an all boys high school as an athletic coach.”
“He’s really religious.”
“There are lots of gay religious people.”
“Sidney!”
“Okay, fine.” Sidney said. “You asked. And you did ask by the way. And I was just telling you one possibility. I don’t know if it’s true or not. And frankly I don’t care.”
“And you think he thinks I’m gay!”
“It was just a possibility.”
Chris came down the stairs and Sidney said, “Saved by your son. Chris, tell us about your day.”
“No time right now, Mr. Darrow. Dad,” he nodded smartly at his father and was headed out the door.
“What was that all about?” Sidney said.
“Chris’s first day as a math tutor. Maybe Mason could do something like that next year.”
Thinking of Mason’s pathetic skills in math and science, Sidney said, “That and build a pair of wax wings.”
“Anything’s possible.”
Addison surveyed Mason’s bedroom. A black beanie, a shawl. Candles, bags of incense from the Pot Shop, and a stack of books from the public library. A Bible, a Qu’ran, large books with funny letters Addison assumed were Hebrew, little books called The Zohar or Understanding the Book of Lights. An out an out scary one entitled Dreams of Being Eaten Alive. In the midst of the madness, shirttails out and glasses askance, knelt Mason, making pencil sketches back and forth through notebooks, now sketching something that looked like a model of a molecule.
“What’s all this?”
“My new study,” Mason said. “I’m branching out. I want to learn Kaballah.”
“You got tired of being a Christian?”
“No,” Mason said in a put out voice. “I just want to know. Besides, if Madonna can do it then why can’t I?”
“That’s right. She does do that stuff.”
“Listen to this,” Mason picked up a book.
“Adam entered blithely, hardly knowing it was the ancient serpent, a silent, screaming temptation. His desire rose to her siren; he lowered himself to the strumpet.”
“Leave it to you to find the part where some poor fuck lowers himself to the strumpet.”
“Maybe it’s Seth.”
“I’ll tell him you said that.”
“And he’ll tell you he did it,” Mason said.
Mason flipped a few pages.
“Ah…”
“Hum?”
He cleared his throat and read:
“‘Finally you pushed me with a strange strength, lifted up the infant, and flung her through the open window.
“In the courtyard she continued the screeching; you went down, returned with her, placed her on the kitchen table and with the carver lopped off her limbs and sawed through her neck. Yet the head still wailed, the limbs flailing—’”
“Gross, Mase, stop!”
“Okay, just listen to the end:
‘You gather up the pieces, force them into a pot, light the fire, boil them. A calm comes over you as you cook, adding vegetables and spices.”
“And you want to study this?” said Addison.
Mason looked up at him incredulously, “How could you not?”
“Well...”
“It’s all about finding God in the… labyrinths of our mind—”
“Nice turn of phrase!”
“In the dark places as opposed to... what the modern church says. You know, in bright, happy, rational places. I mean, religion’s not rational, but at Saint Vitus they try to make it rational and acceptable. But Kabbalah—as far as I can see at least—is about just the opposite. It’s all about fantasy, imagination, the flesh, the visceral stuff.”
“Visceral,” Addison repeated.
“What?” said Mason.
“Your grades are halfway off horrible,” Addison said. “If not for English and religion you’d be in real trouble, so it’s always good to remember you’re a brain.”
“I am not,” Mason said, suddenly embarrassed. “I just watch a lot of Jeopardy.”
Addison chuckled and Mason pushed himself up dusting his knees.
“Look,” he said, tilting his head back.
“What? Huh? Oh,” Addison came forward and rubbed his friend’s chin. “The goatee’s coming in.”
“I hope Dad won’t tell me to take it off.”
“Sidney’s cool. He wouldn’t do that. And then, you’d just ignore him anyway.”
Mason thought about that.
“I guess you’re right,” he decided at last. “Look, I’ve decided something. All right? Dad goes out of town next week. And this is also the day that Tommy wants me to go to some Jesus thing. So I’ve decided, I’m going to leave you my key and if you decide to.... do what you asked me… well then go ahead.”
There was a strange look, more horrified than grateful on Addison’s face. He looked at Mason like his friend might be slightly ill. Then he said, “Are you sure, Mason?”
“Yes, I’m sure. So don’t ask me again. And I’ll do a Blood Swear if you want me to, just in case you change your mind.”
“No,” Addison’s voice was soft. “Don’t do that. Uh... I...”
“Well, you want to do it don’t you? And… You asked.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“Don’t ask me how I feel. You know how I feel. But you never ask for that much and this is the one thing you did ask so... I won’t turn you down. All right?”
Addison, his mouth open and a little dazed looked around the bedroom he was going to lose his virginity in.
“Awright,” he said.
Chris Powers laughed, pointed to the arch on the graph paper and said, “Do you see that, Sullivan! That—is your first successful parabola!”
Sully grinned down at it, feeling stupid for being so happy over this, and then he said, “But the real issue is will I able to do this without you standing over me from step A to... Z or whatever step it was.”
“You did it without me that time.”
“Sort of,” Sully shrugged.
“Look,” said Chris. “By Friday when you have this week’s quiz, I assure you: you will be able to do parabolas in your sleep.”
Chris stopped and looked at Sully who was grinning.
“What?”
“It’s just,” Sullivan said, “math is kind of cool.”
` “I think so,” Chris said earnestly. Then, “Dean Howard said you’re a poet.”
“Not really,” Sullivan said. “I mean, “I think one of my teachers told him that and—”
“I’ve seen you scribbling stuff in that notebook of yours,” Chris told him. “So I know you are. Everyone talks about it. How you’re going to be this writer one day.”
“I bet no one talks about it,” Sully told him, remembering that he was talking to the famous Chris Powers, and then, cocking his head and realizing he wasn’t as amazed as he had been an hour and a half ago when Chris had come to the door.
“Read me something,” Chris said sitting up on the bed and drawing his knees to his chest.
“No,” Sully said.
“I think you owe me,” Chris told him. “After the hour and a half I put in.”
“Like you read poetry!”
“Why wouldn’t I?” said Chris. “Cause I’m some meathead athlete? I’ll have you know that I’m on honor roll.”
Sully quoted: “Powers concentrates on his studies after school during the winter. A three-sport letter winner in climate seasons, Chris treasures the dark winter with its lack of athletics, as he continues to excel in academic honors. Powers is a winner of the Phi Kappa Psi Award and a member of the Collegae Honorum Society for Gifted Students.”
Chris’s eyes bugged out. “What’s that from?”
Sullivan sat up, went to his bookshelf, stretched to pull down the grey yearbook and flipped it open. He didn’t even bother to hide the fact that he knew the exact page it was on. Chris who, right now, looked like his football photograph in his sweats, unshaven, hair spiked up, scowled as he read and muttered, “Now, that’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah, I’d be embarrassed to be scholar of the year and athlete of the year.”
Chris studied him.
“What?”
“I like you Sully. But I don’t like the way you said that. That’s all.”
Sully was shocked.
“It’s just,” Sully began. “I didn’t mean to offend, but you’ve got it all. So why be embarrassed? I mean—look at me.”
“What about you?”
“Me. I have bad grades. No athletic skills—”
“You really think that’s everything?”
“No, but... yeah,” Sully said, suddenly defensive. “I do. In our world, right now, that is everything. And there probably isn’t a place in that yearbook you’ll find anything about Sullivan Reardon. You’re all over the place, Chris, and I’m not saying you shouldn’t be. I’m just saying.... That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Okay,” Chris said after a moment. “So, when you see me... What do you see?”
Sully stopped to consider for a moment, and then he said, “The quarterback. The most popular guy in the school. You know, the one we’re all supposed to be.”
Chris shrugged and then Sully said, “Well, do I get to ask you the same question. Not that I’m sure I want to know the answer.”
Chris looked at Sully.
“I see Sully Reardon,” he said.
“And?”