So her ego requires her to invest it with cosmic proportion.
Once
shes been fired a few times, shell get used to it, I said.
The voice of experience?
Something like that, I said.
I was cooking supper and Susan was pitching in by sitting at my kitchen counter drinking white wine and watching.
Are you sure youre cooking those scallops long enough? she said.
Of what can we be sure, I said, in this uncertain world?
Were not going to discuss the nature of being, are we? Susan said.
No.
Thank God.
Or whoever, I said.
Stop that, Susan said.
She sipped her wine. I tossed the scallops in the saute pan one more time and slid them onto a plate.
They dont look cooked to me, she said.
Suze, I said, when you make tea, you burn the water.
Do I hear you saying shut the fuck up?
At least about cooking, I said.
Mums the word.
I also dented the pasta and found it correct and poured it through a colander. I added some green peas and the sauteed scallops and tossed it all with some pesto sauce and put it on the counter. We ate at the counter, sitting side by side. Susan broke off a tiny piece from a loaf of French bread and ate it with a minimalist forkful of the pasta.
Youre right, she said. You dont need my help.
Not to cook, I said.
Or much of anything else, she said.
I glanced at her sideways. What about, you know? I said.
I dont consider that help, she said.
Well, you are certainly not a hindrance, I said.
Sometimes I think its the only thing Im good at.
I drank some beer. Well, if there could only be one thing I said.
She didnt say anything. I could feel us drifting into a more serious corner of the evening.
I cant get that kid out of my head, Susan said.
The suicide?
Yes.
Would you expect to, this soon after?
No, she said, I suppose I wouldnt.
In time, I said, the sharp edges round off.
I hope so.
Seems a shame, I said, that so harmless a variation should cause such pain.
I know, Susan said. People, especially young people, often think the circles they are in are the only circles that matter. They dont realize that there is a world where nobody much gives a goddamn.
Susan finished her wine. I poured her some more. She gestured me to stop at half a glass.
Its not the condition, she said, or whatever. Its the concealment.
Like Watergate, I said. It wasnt the burglary that caused all the trouble; it was the cover-up.
Something like that, Susan said. Pretending to be what you are not fills people with self-loathing. If they share their secret, even with a sex partner, then others have power over them. They are vulnerable to blackmail of one kind or another.
I carefully twirled some pasta onto my fork. Susan could eat with chopsticks, but she was nowhere at twirling pasta.
You know, I said, prior to Mary Smith, I cannot find any sign of a sex partner for Nathan Smith.
How old was he when he got married?
Fifty-one, I said.
Children? Susan said. With Mary?
No. But she told me that he was friendly with a number of young boys.
Maybe youre looking for the wrong kind of sex partner, Susan said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
There was a photographer I knew named Race Witherspoon who was gayer than springtime and quite happy about it. He had his studios this year in a fourth-floor loft in South Boston, just across Fort Point Channel.
His studio was cluttered with tripods, and reflector umbrellas, and props, and Diet Coke cans. Curled Polaroid peel-offs were everywhere. A Flintlock musket leaned in a corner. A red feather boa was draped over the edge of an old rolltop desk. A cowboy hat lay on top of a file cabinet, a pair of combat boots stood side by side on an overturned milk carton. Light flooded in through a skylight. On the wall was a huge black-and-white blowup of two naked men. I tried to remain calm about it.
In the middle of the clutter Race was surgically immaculate. His white flannel pants were sharply creased. His turquoise shirt was fitted. His black-and-white shoes were gleaming.
Oh my God! Race said. Man of my dreams.
How unfortunate, I said.
Well, honey, he said, sooner or later they all come back.
I need homo info, I said.
Race grinned and did a small shuffle ball change and spread his arms.
Youve come to the right place, Big Boy.
If you were an older man, I said.
Which Im not, Race said.
Certainly not, I said. In all the years Ive known you you havent aged any more than I have.
Thats unkind, Race said. But go ahead, if I were an older man
Where would you be likely to go to meet young men?
How young.
Boys.
Nellies, Race said. Third floor. Its chickenfucker central.
Joint in Bay Village? I said.
Nice turn of phrase, honey, Race said.
I try to be appropriate, I said. Bay Village?
Where else?
Ever go there?
Downstairs, he said. I dont like children much.
I took the picture of Nathan Smith out and held it up for him. Ever see this guy?
Race examined the picture. Not my type, he said.
You know him?
No.
If I took this picture down to Nellies and showed it around, you think theyd tell me anything?