Saturday Night
Conclusion
“So how is Billy?” James Lewis said.
They were all in the kitchen, having a late night dinner around the table and Noah, biting into a hot roll said, “He was doing okay. But when Chay showed up, things seemed to come together. You should have seen him,” Noah touched his son’s head, affectionately.
“You just happened to be doing something I could understand,” Chay said.
“You’ve got a knack for that stuff,” James told him, and Claire Lawden could tell that they’d had this discussion before.
“I don’t think I want to be a teacher, though.”
“What do you want to be?” said Claire.
“Hey, not fair,” James wagged a finger at her.
“Thank you,” Chay said. “I’m twenty.”
“Fair enough.”
“I believe Chay will do whatever he wants.”
“I was thinking of taking over Casey’s business.”
Noah raised an eyebrow and Chay said, “Com’on, I’m just joking. It’s a joke,” he repeated.
“That’s not even funny,” his father said.
Chay yawned and Claire shook her finger, “Time for you to go to bed, young man.”
“What have you got?” James asked.
“Three research papers due by next Tuesday.”
“It ain’t right,” Noah said, seriously. For him, college was too recent a memory, and he had been an adult when he’d gone, so it had been all about the work.
Chay’s ass buzzed and he stood up a little and pulled out his phone. He gestured to them with it, and James nodded for him to be excused.
“It feels like it was just yesterday that we brought him home from the hospital,” Noah said.
“What the hell are you talking about?” James demanded. “Don’t you ever pretend that we gave birth to him?” “Are you serious?”
“This is a new and nutty side of you I’ve never seen,” Claire told Noah.
“I like to pretend. Sometimes. I dunno. Maybe we should have another kid.”
“Oh,” Claire said, so James didn’t have to.
“When you say maybe we should have another kid,” James began, “do you mean it like maybe we should go to China one day, or do you mean it like maybe we should get the furnace checked?”
“No, we definitely need to get the furnace checked. But I was just… It’s speculation. I mean, hell, Fenn was forty before he had Dylan. I’m really in no hurry for a new kid.”
At the top of the steps, the old kid was talking on his cell phone.
“I’ve got a ton of work,” Chay was saying.
“And you were going to do it tonight?” Sheridan countered.
“I was thinking of it—” Chay interrupted himself with a yawn.
“See,” Sheridan said.
“I do see.”
“I’ve got all these books for my paper.”
“And you can bring those too,” Sheridan said. “I don’t have much of a choice do I?”
“Well, I guess if you’re going to be that way, you do.”
“No. no,” Chay said. “I don’t know why I’m being this way.”
“It’s not like you’re a guest. I mean, my house is your house. You know I really wish it was.”
“I know.”
“Look,” Sheridan said, “I’m not trying to bring up an old subject again. When you’re ready, all right? I just wish you were ready now.”
“I like being with my folks is all. I mean, they need me. We’re a family. And, let’s face it, the teenage years were hard. I was a fuck up. Now, we’re happy, and I don’t want to leave them.”
“Chay Lewis, you’re not going to Berkeley. You’re not even going to Notre Dame. You’re just crossing town to live on campus. You can see them everyday.”
“I know.”
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“I’ll drop the subject. Alright? I just got my keys. Get your shit ready. I’ll be over in about ten minutes. I need you to spend the night with me.”
“Should we stop and get anything?” “Are you hungry?” Sheridan asked.
“Not yet, but I feel like I will be. We should plan for breakfast.”
“Chay, when we get hungry we can go out for breakfast.” “I dunno,” said Chay. “I was just thinking how nice it
would be to make it.”
They stopped at the red light on Madison, and Sheridan smiled.
“Yeah. I bet Kroger is still open. And sausage in the morning. and eggs. The smell of pancakes.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked for you.”
Sheridan smiled and looked at Chay. The light turned green and he nearly missed it.
“Oh,” Sheridan saw the green light and pushed the gas. “What?”
“I just like it when you cook for me,” Sheridan said. “It makes me feel cared for.”
“Well, you are cared for. I mean, just cause I don’t want to rush right in and be your roommate doesn’t mean I don’t care for you.
“Chay?”
“Yeah?”
“What are we?”
“Whaddo you mean?”
“We’ve been… You’ve been in my life since I was ten and you were eight, and… what are we?”
When Chay didn’t say anything, Sheridan added, “I’ve never called you my boyfriend. I still don’t.”
“Well… the first time we were together, you were with Paul’s sister-in-law.”
“Shelley.”
“Yeah. And then, you were with Logan and I was with Casey and we just… We were best friends… making love. It’s odd to talk about it. We never talk about it. You’re my best friend… I know your body better than I know my own.”
In the driver’s seat, Sheridan was growing warm. His penis was hard and his heart was soft. He placed his hand over Chay’s.
“You wanna call yourself my boyfriend?”
“No,” Chay said, his voice soft. “I don’t think that’s enough. Not for us. I don’t want to call us anything. I want to stop at Kroger and pick up pancake mix and all of that stuff. Then I want to go back to your place. And I want to shut the door and then be with you all night. Forget about papers. Just… be with each other in every way we can be until we’re exhausted. And then I want to wake up with you, and cook breakfast for you because you’re my best friend. And I love you.”
In the night, Layla got up. The house was not completely dark, for she kept little votive lights shedding gold light all through the night. She wrapped her housecoat around her. It was chilly, but now the whir of the furnace sounded from below.
She came down the steps into the living room, and then sat at her desk. The heavy curtain was drawn, but on the other side of it, across the street, was Paul and Kirk’s house.
There was her book, and beside it there was a scrap of paper. What did you do when you had your first volume of poetry and, at last, right before your thirtieth birthday, you were a published poet?
She sat down and scribbled:
at the night
in the half gold light
and the weary whir of September furnace i sit to write
and i don’t promise a masterpiece what i place here
is just a piece of me and it is for you
and it is for anyone who will read it.
i sit at the window
and you see me at this window
and i see you though we haven’t met and all of me in you
and in your reading had already been set this perfect writing this perfect breathing is the only real loving and in this night time i am loving you
And Layla Lawden knew then, what you did when you were the poet and you woke up late at night, your lover far off, this sort of sweet sadness in your heart.
You wrote.
