These Things Happen (15 page)

   "I can get you a charger," he says. "We keep them here, for customers, for emergencies."

   "Well, this
is
one. Thank you."

   "Or I could go up and look for him."

   I don't want that; I'm not sure why. "That's not necessary, George. Really."

   He looks to Kenny. "Or you could?"

   Kenny offers his phone to me. "Use mine."

   I take it, and see that his screen saver is of George, younger, on

stage in a role; his eyes look heavily made up, like a courtesan's, and he holds a glass unicorn in his hand. Although the picture is chaste I feel as if I've come across some secret about them. I press in numbers, anyway. "Nine one seven—"

   "One quick thing?" George says.

   "What?"

   "That may not work."

   "Well, that's too bad. It's going to work. It has to."

   "He doesn't have his phone."

   "Did he lose it?"

   "No."

   "Then where is it?"

   "I have it."

   "But why?"

   "He ran up a bill. I lent him the money to pay it."

   "Did you know about this?" I ask Kenny.

   "No. You know how busy—"

   "I'll send you a check, George."

   "I'll give you a check," says Kenny.

   "We made a deal. He's working off what he owes me down here. He has two hours left."

   "What do you pay him?"

   "Twelve an hour."

   "Ha! We don't pay our editorial assistants that. What do you have him doing?"

   "Prep. Plating. Torching. He fires the crème brulée tops. For the crackle."

   "Is that safe?"

   More texts drop, from some sky, for all of us; I return Kenny's phone to him as I see mine, glowing and alive from its charge. We tap back our responses, mine being
Good!
, one word in answer to my assistant's news that an author has just delivered a manuscript that is nine years late. As the men's fingers fly, as we await Wesley's return, I calm myself with a private recitation of my CV. I am Louise Farmer Bowman Korman, Lola since I was a girl, loved by my husband, able in my field. I am a member of PEN, executive editor (on hiatus) of the W
illa Cather Quarterly.
I am the mother of a boy who has always excelled at school, at sports, in friendship. And now, in less than a full day, I'm someone whose child is held for observation, mumbles fi
ne
when I ask how he is, lets me know my concern is a burden and an annoyance.

   Then I see him. He's in the sweatshirt he was wearing when it happened, advertising some group I've never heard of; it's red, but you can still see where blood has crusted and dried. He has twelve stitches over his right eye, which looks twice as puffy and swollen as it did yesterday, multiple abrasions, and a broken left index finger, in a splint.

   "Wesley?" I say, as if there were some chance it might not be him, that none of this has happened and the past twenty hours could be reclaimed.

   "Hey."

   All fingers freeze, midtext. "Hey," we all say.

   "Finish your texts," he says, with a gracious sweep of a swollen, purple hand. "It's cool."

   "Join us," I say. "Please. We've been worried."

   He slowly approaches and, still standing, snatches a piece of bruschetta from the platter. He needs a haircut. That's what I think first, hating myself for thinking it. And he smells, too. Boys do, I know; a friend with boys says it's from their long race to manhood. But this strong? Like one of those boys they find in France, who have lived in forests, raised by bears.

   I give him a moment to crunch and chew, which looks like it hurts him. "This is good," he tells George, with his mouth full. "Just the right amount of garlic. Not overpowering." He burps and wipes his mouth with his sweatshirt, which I've never seen him do before. As he steps forth Ben gets up and holds out a chair for him. I feel myself relax. This can go well. No one needs to be hurt, or even upset. Don't charge. Approach. Gently.

   But it turns out that what he wants is not a seat but a second piece of bruschetta, which he helps himself to and downs, more or less, without chewing. He grabs for a third, paces as he eats it, making muffled grunting sounds. I see him, midbite, gag, hunch over, and turn away from us.

   "Wesley?" I say. "Sweetheart? What is it?"

   "
Shit
." As he turns back I see blood flow from his mouth. He guards something in his hand, the one that's purple and twice its size, not the one with the broken finger. "I thought this would happen," he says.

   "Is it a tooth?"

   He shows it to me, holding it out, watching my reaction. I've never actually seen a knocked-out tooth; dipped in blood, with the dangling root, it looks like a gory punctuation mark. "Let me have it," I say, as one might to a small dog, or child.

   He just laughs. "No way. It's
mine
."

   "Does it hurt?"

   "Hey," he says, with a knowing chuckle I've never heard from him, "this is what happens in fights. I mean, right?" He pitches this to the men at the table, and I'm grateful no one answers. I dig for a Kleenex to give him, to wipe from his mouth the blood that makes it look as if he's just fed on some small, helpless something. But George is too quick for me. He's there first, with one of his rough, peasanty napkins dipped in water; as the light falls on him I can see he's started coloring his hair. Wesley puts the tooth in his pocket, wipes his face, returns the napkin. George gives it to a passing busboy. And that's it, no need of help from me. "Is there something that's like softer?" Wesley asks George.

   "There's polenta? Flan?"

   "Do you have the asparagus flan?"

   "George?" I say. "Please. Don't bother."

   "But I'm
starving."

   "Just sit down first, with us. We've been waiting for you. Right, Kenny?"

   He seems surprised. "Yes. Right."

   Wesley doesn't sit, though. "I shouldn't be here, you know."

   "Why not?"

   "I'm missing Moral Imperatives. And one of the biggest moral imperatives is to always show
up
for Moral Imperatives."

   Moral Imperatives is a requirement, meeting twice a week after school and intended to address, hopefully, the soul. "I think they'll understand, this once."

   "No, they won't. Mr. Frechette says you have to have perfect attendance or you can forget Cornell. And that's a
safety
school." He turns to George. " Could I work tonight?"

   "Do what your mom says, okay? Sit down."

   He does. Whatever works. " Thank you," I tell George.

   "No worries," says George, for the second time.

   "
Ha
," Wesley says sharply, as if he'd caught me doing something I'd denied but he knew I'd been secretly doing all along.

"What?"

"
He
can say that, but if I do—"

"George isn't my son. You are."

   "So that means I can't say stuff that's like totally common parlans?"

   
Parlans.
I'll fix that later. "Common parlance," I tell him, knowing even as I start that what I'm about to say I'd harshly judge if I heard it from someone else, "doesn't automatically suggest a civilized use of language. In fact, quite the opposite."

   "And you're like the arbiter of civilization," Wesley says. "Like Nietzsche. Or Bellow."

   Bellow? Then I remember. Ruth Lieber, across the hall from us, suffering from macular degeneration that Ben, who knows, says is hopeless; she paid Wesley to read
Seize the Day
aloud.

   Ben, bless him again, saves me. "Can I take a look at your eye?"

   As Wesley, for a moment, drops his swagger, I see how he lets Ben lay a soft hand on his shoulder. Ben, then, is safe, and easy. But at the hospital, when they pulled the curtain to reveal him to me, looking like this, seated on the end of a bed with his feet dangling, when I reached for him he flinched and slid quickly back.

   "Look straight at me," Ben says. "Try not to blink." Wesley obeys. "Good. Like that. You're looking at sixty-four years of booze and whores, kid. Now to the left. And the right. No delusions that you're Steve and Eydie, or either, individually?"

   "Who?"

   "Then you pass. And we're done. By the weekend you should be pouting and glowering normally."

   "Well, that's good news," I say. "And just to make sure this gets said, Wesley, thanks for joining us."

   "Like I had a choice?"

   
This is not a question. It does not, therefore, need an answer.
"We all know how awful this must have been for you."

   "It wasn't."

   
Steady.
"Well, you'd know. You're the one it happened to."

   "And Theo, too."

   "Yes. Also to him."

   "And the guys who did it. ' Cause it wasn't like one-sided." He looks to the men again. "I can fight. Fortunately. The doctor said I was the lucky one, remember?"

   "Who knows what he said? He could hardly speak English."

   "Racist."

   "Actually, I'm not."

   "It's not an insult, Mom. It's just an observation."

   "Wesley, if my racism helps you, then yes, I'm a racist."

   "So you admit it."

   "Because that's my one goal here, today," I say, "to help you. For all of us. It's why we're here."

   "She's right, Wesley," Kenny says, surprising me. Wesley, startled, looks to him. I remind myself: he's a very effective man.

   "I know," Wesley says quietly.

   "Then let us help you."

   "Well, here's the thing, which is no offense? I don't need it. And you're all like necessary incredible amazing people, who should be where you're needed. Not with me. What I need is to call Theo, and take a nap, and get my tooth put back in."

   
Necessary. Incredible. Amazing.
Is this how he sees us? Is this how we are? "You can do all those things. They'll all happen—"

   George cuts me off. "I called Theo," he says to Wesley.

   I nod to him, in thanks. I think, Y
ou shouldn't be here.
I
don't
need
you.

"When?"

"Just before we all got here."

"How is he?"

"Tired. But he feels better. And he says
hey."

   "I called him, too," I say. I didn't. I have known him all his life. Wesley looks at me, not with distrust, as he used to before these months here. The lie is too easy, which makes it worse. "I spoke to his mother, who said the same thing. They were watching T
he
Wire."

   I have him. " Which season?" Wesley asks.

   "Four."

   "Well, that's the best one."

   "Wesley, I think I know how you're feeling."

   "You do?" The challenge is gone; the abraded jaw (increasingly Kenny's) no longer thrust out.

   "I think. This happened to you together. Theo's your friend."

   "Best," he quickly adds.

   "Best. And what happened to you both should never have happened."

   "But it did."

   "And, thank God, you're the lucky one, as you said—"

   "The
doctor
said."

   "Yes. Which makes me sad for Theo, and his family."

   "He's going to be okay, unless his mom told you something you're not telling me. Which you can tell me, if she did. I'm not a baby."

   "I know you're not. And she didn't."

   "I know more than you think."

   "And while I'm sad for Theo I'm so grateful for you."

   "Me? What did I do?"

   "We're all grateful"—I nod, to his fathers, to Kenny, and Ben— "that you're not in some hospital bed, with a tv hanging in the air and terrible worries as to what might come next. Because we can figure that out here." Ben tries to take my hand but I keep it for myself; I need it, in case I have to reach for Wesley, if he'll let me, if it will help. "What comes next for
you
."

   He says something, but I don't hear him. " Could you say that again?" I ask.

   "I said, what if it was my fault?"

   "But how would that be possible?"

   "I could have fought harder. He could have gotten away."

   I'm about to say something but, as with the blood, George is there before me.

   "How can you even say that?" he demands aggressively, I think, even inappropriately. "How can you think for a second that that could be true?"

   Before George can say more I say to Wesley, " Maybe you feel that now, and I'm sure it feels real. But keep in mind what you've been through."

   "It's
in
my mind. It's keeping itself."

   "And you'll see things differently later. I promise you."

   " Which means?"

   
Take a breath.

   "At the moment, you're not yourself."

   There's a pause, one I don't like and know I've helped create. I regret what I've said, and I never do. It might just be that I'm worn out, too; I need to be that much more careful.

   "I'm myself," Wesley says. "I'm always myself."

   No one helps me. "I meant you're in shock." Will this end it?

No. "I'm not in shock."

   "You are." What am I talking about? Do they still have shock? Does it still explain things?

   "I'm not."

   "You are. You got beaten up. Badly."

   He laughs, pitching it to the men, as he did before. "I didn't get beaten up." He looks to Kenny. "Did I, Dad? You know about stuff like this."