Mike and Winston - 7. Chapter 7

The train ride home that Friday provided Mike with a lot of time to think. He spent it trying not to think of anything at all.

He had turned down Dan's offer to go to Gil's place earlier that day. It had both pleased him and unsettled him further when Dan decided not to go either. They had ended up having dinner at the pizza joint, which was as good a place as any to do what he had promised himself and Winston that he would do. But as he sat on the vinyl-coated chair, trying not to stare too hard at Dan's ridiculously beautiful forearms, he had found that his throat had clamped shut.

"This weekend's gonna suck."

"Yeah?"

"I've a ten-page paper to write for my government class. Ten fucking pages."

Mike had nodded in commiseration. "I've two midterms next week, both on Tuesday. I haven't started studying, and my family's going to eat up my time."

"Yeah. You're, uh, half Asian right?"

Mike had nodded. "My mom's Chinese."

"You wouldn't happen to have a good topic for recent governmental policies in far east Asia, would you?"

"No idea. I've actually never been to China. My mom was born here."

"Oh, so you're-third generation?"

"Fourth, actually."

It had set him apart from the other Chinese kids. Many of their parents had come to the States as transfer students and were now engineers, doctors. His mom was nothing like them. Her highest degree was from a community college, and her parents, owners of a tiny apothecary in Chinatown, lived only a train ride away. They had wanted their daughter to be as far away and as American as possible. It seemed ironic, Mike thought, that disappointed expectations was the only reliable thing to transcend generations.

"That'd cool," Dan had said. He had also proceeded to lick his fingers clean, each one methodically. "So do you speak Chinese?"

"No. Although I understand a bit. Mostly things my mom says when she's chewing someone out."

"Oh?" Dan had sounded amused. "Like what? ‘Do you homework, fucker!'"

Mike had chuckled. "Nah. More like..." He paused, thinking. "Er bai wu. Literally it means ‘two-hundred fifty,' but I think it really means ‘idiot.'"

"Er bai wu," Dan repeated.

Mike had smirked. "Close."

He had wondered if that ensuing silence was a good time to bring up the topic of being roommates. It would be a good segue into-other things. The thought of it had made the pizza in his stomach suddenly turn to stone. But Dan had gone on talking before he could speak.

"My mom's third generation Italian," Dan had said, "and my dad's Irish. He's so Irish, in fact, that we go to a Protestant Church every Sunday." Dan chuckled. "He could give George Bush a run for being a New England WASP."

"Yeah."

Dan had shrugged. "I don't know why it should matter. I mean, I don't really know what it's like to have parents who actually care about being Italian or Irish, you know?"

"Yeah."

They had been quiet for another moment, regarding the piles of greasy paper plates and crumpled napkins.

"Well, I've got work to do," Dan had said.

"Yeah, me too."

"You're going home tonight, right?"

"Yeah."

Mike had managed to get himself on his feet and some semblance of a grin on his face as they walked out the door and into the sharp air of evening. That had been it. He had turned with his mouth open, ready to speak, but Dan had been kicking the sidewalk with his shoe and lifting his head to look at the rim of the sky. Mike had shut his mouth.

"I hope you have a good time at home," Dan had said in a surprisingly sympathetic voice.

Mike had cursed himself for having been so monosyllabic. The notion of coming out was affecting him more than he had thought it would. "Yeah, I hope so too. There's some... stuff going on." An awkward pause. "Well, good luck with your paper."

Dan had nodded. Mike had nodded back, and turned away with the feeling of ants swarming over the inside of his skin.

This was worse than anything he had faced before. It was worse than that final exam from last term, for which he had skipped all the lectures. It was worse than the swim team competitions, when he had been all nerves in the hours before the race. Warm-ups, stretches, the world narrowing to harsh sunlight, wet concrete. But those interminable minutes had only required him to react: an answer squeezed out here, another kick of his leg. He had not had to speak. He had not had to broach a subject that he had difficulty even whispering to himself.

At least there was Winston. Winston, whom he last saw from the window of his dorm, walking briskly up the Berkeley slopes without once looking back.

Mike was surprised when he found his father waiting for him at the station, and decided not to ask why his mother had not to come. His father smiled in greeting, crinkling the edges of his pale blue eyes. They were nothing like Mike's brown ones.

"How've you been, Mike?"

"All right."

Mike fell silent, wondering if his father and mother had had a chance to talk yet, if his father knew what his entire family suspected him of doing.

"How was Germany?"

"Same as always," his father said. "The Euro's fallen, so things are a bit easier."

"Did you go to Lausanne?"

"No, I went to France this time. Toulouse."

"Wait. Isn't Lausanne in France?"

"It's in Switzerland."

"Oh." Name after name-sometimes, it seemed that his father went to places that did not exist and only popped up now and then with an exotic lexicon. The most concrete thing he had in association with those names was the globe that Steve had broken years ago. Once upon a time, his mother had guided his finger to the smallish amalgamation of colored shapes and said that this was Zurich, Paris, Salzburg. Oddly, the memory was stronger than much of what he remembered from the whirlwind tour his father had taken them; nothing, except perhaps the rain, carried the weight of his mother's hand guiding his across the globe, and her pensive silence.

Dinner that night was Chinese takeout. Mike wondered if that was his mother making a statement; she usually cooked when their father was home.

"So where'd you go this time?" Steve asked.

"Toulouse."

Steven sniggered. "That's such a loser name, Dad."

Their father smiled serenely. "It's in France."

Mike watched his mother click her chopsticks together with disapproval. "How were your SAT's last week, Steve?"

Steve's face shut down at once. "The scores aren't out yet," he muttered. "How am I supposed to know?"

"Steve spends all his time with his girlfriend."

Their father looked up, surprised. "Girlfriend?"

"Mom!" Steve groaned.

"So," his father said in a teasing voice, "who's this girlfriend?"

Steve gave him a guarded but hopeful glance. Their mother, Mike noted, had a deep frown on her face. "Elaine," Steve muttered.

"Ah, Elaine." Their father grinned knowingly. He could not even know who she was, Mike thought, feeling vaguely disgusted. "And before Mike here, eh?" The disgust morphed into nausea.

Their mother made a dismissive sound. "Steve still has three SAT II's to take-"

"Two," Steve muttered.

"And he's only taken one."

"Honey, everyone needs a break-"

"That's easy for you to say," their mother interrupted. "You were in Europe. For business. Always business." Mike took another walnut shrimp and felt glad that he was facing Steve and not one of his parents. "Toulouse," she spat. Mike could feel his father turning to stone.

Dinner conversation ended after that, and dinner soon after. Mike was relieved. He had delayed the inevitable, but the inevitable was only delayed. Sooner or later he would have to do it, though not be this evening. His father would watch TV the rest of the night, slouched on the couch with a glass of wine, looking like a stranger in a hotel lobby. His mother would finish her routine of household chores. Then both would disappear into the room at the end of the hall, and the house would be silent. Or Mike could imagine it was if he turned on his music and lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for the endlessly cycling tracks to trick his mind into sleeping.

Winston was not online. Mike checked his email, browsed the headlines on Google, checked his email again, considered masturbating, and decided against it. He could read something, he thought. He considered looking at the dim titles of the books he had not touched in years: The Lord of the Rings and Le Guin's Earthsea series. A few Animorph books he had gotten as birthday gifts. Great Expectations, which was there mainly for show, and Treasure Island, Robinson Crusoe.

He wondered what Winston was doing. Finally talking to his wife? Avoiding her? Maybe she was going at lengths about the camping trip. Mike had gotten the impression that Michelle liked to talk a lot. Or perhaps she was wheedling her husband for sex.

"Did you always know you were..." Mike had started to ask, during a particularly contemplative afterglow, but had to change his wording mid-sentence. "Did you always know you were into guys?"

Winston was silent for a moment, considering. "Almost. Yes."

"So why did you marry?" Mike waited, and then added, half-humorously, "Did you like women better?"

That failed to produce even a chuckle. "It was a mistake."

Mike was taken aback. "Oh." He felt suddenly uncomfortable, even though he had been hoping for days that Winston would open up. "I'm sorry."

"It isn't what you think," Winston said. "And," he turned, "you might make the same mistake."

Mike had answered that he did not think he was in danger of doing so.

"Things change. If you tried, you could probably do it with a girl. And then you might think that, since you can do it with a girl, you could-you know-get married, and be normal."

Yes, Mike did know. He knew very well. Being normal. And the most terrible thing was that, for all his certainty about the truthfulness that he owed himself, he could still see it happening. Loneliness was a thing for which there were no defenses.

"But you're a different generation," Winston had said, after a pause. "When I was your age-" He had stopped and was quiet an interminable time before deciding on a snort. "The guy I first fucked with said that it was just two guys messing around. ‘We weren't gay,' he said, ‘or anything queer like that.'"

Mike had reached a tentative hand to stroke Winston's bare shoulder, feeling both sadness and something he could not put a name to.

"I kind of wonder where is now. Maybe he is straight. Who knows."

Several moments later, Winston had rolled onto his side and fixed Mike with a stare.

"What?"

"You've no excuse now," Winston had said. Mike frowned in confusion before realizing the meaning in the inscrutability of Winston's face. "You've the internet, gays in the media all the time, movies..."

"I know," Mike had said, "but it's still hard."

"It is."

Mike had wondered-and did so again, now-what it was like to be married to someone he did not love. He supposed Winston loved his wife in some undeniable way, but there had to be something missing. Mike thought reluctantly about his own family. The possibility that his father was really having an affair, a notion he had kept successfully at bay, was now staring at him in the face. He wondered what she was like. A Swiss bombshell as Steve had said? He wondered if he should feel unsettled for feeling more sad and pitying than condemnatory.

Mike got up and checked his email and messenger list. Still no Winston.

Saturday started inauspiciously. Mike's mother woke up him much too early and told him to fix up the front yard. He wondered, while brushing his teeth and scrubbing his face with cold sink water, if his mother had ulterior motives; she had always allowed him to do garden chores in the afternoon. The notion that his mother wanted his father to watch was ridiculous, but not ridiculous enough to dismiss.

He was looking through the refrigerator for jam when he heard indignant noises coming from Steve's room. A few minutes later, Steve stumbled into the kitchen.

"...and then you have to study your SATs, before you can go meet Elaine-"

"I know, Mom!" Steve hollered. "Fucking hell," he muttered under his breath. Mike tried to ignore it. "Why does she have to make me do all these stupid things? Why-"

Mike slammed the jar onto the kitchen counter. "Do you want to trim the hedges or mow the lawn?"

"Mow the lawn," Steve muttered.

Mike had to show Steve twice how to start the motor. He usually did the mowing, so he was not surprised that Steve wanted to do it. The day heated up quickly. Besides the bamboo bush that had begun to send up stalks like irritable fingers, there was a tangle of roses half wilted with black spots and a spiky plant Mike was unsure how to approach. He was considering chopping the whole thing in half when the mower rumbled to a stop, and Mike turned to see his brother pull off his shirt.

"What?" Steve demanded, not un-self-consciously. "It's hot."

Mike grunted and turned away. Whatever else, this Elaine seemed to be a good boost of confidence.

It suddenly occurred to Mike that Steve might have had sex. The thought made him freeze in place. It was absurd-his baby brother, a sexual creature? It was also disgusting. But it was more than merely possible. He scrutinized his brother, as though a sign would reveal itself if he stared hard enough. Steve rumbled past, struggled with the mower, cursed, and began another circuit. Probably not, Mike decided, though it might be necessary to give Steve a talk about condoms. He grinned at the thought.

"I'm going in to get some water," Steve announced.

"Go ahead," said Mike. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and wished he had checked his body in the mirror more thoroughly that morning. The hickey from a few days ago had faded, and there were none on his neck, but he couldn't be sure about his shoulders or back. He had told Winston about the hickey episode, much to the other man's amusement.

Steve was in an odd mood when he returned. Mike sensed it immediately. "Mom and Dad are really arguing in there."

Mike felt his stomach sink. "How bad?"

Steve shrugged as he yanked the motor back to life. "Bad."

Mike hesitated. He almost wanted to turn a blind eye to it all, pretend it would go away if he turned his back. But he lay the shears on the pavement and carefully entered the house.

He expected to hear raised voices, or at least muffled sounds from the master bedroom. Instead, the house was quiet. Mike pulled off his shoes and wandered into the living room.

"Hey," he said. His father was sitting there on the couch, staring at the television.

"Hey yourself," his father said. His voice was almost inaudible. It had never sounded that way before. "How's the yard coming along?"

"Okay." Mike glanced at the television; it was off. "Where's Mom?"

His father made vague motion with his hand. "In her room."

"Okay," said Mike. He turned and sidled to the kitchen counter, where he found a cup and poured himself some water. He snuck a glance at his father: he was still sitting on the couch and staring ahead at nothing.

Mike drank the cup, sighed, and went back outside.

Steve was waiting with his shirt tucked into the waist of his trousers. "Done!"

"No, you're not," Mike said. He began to scan the lawn for an unmown spot, but he was distracted. He had almost never seen his father look so dazed. He tried to remember the last time, and could not.

"Yeah," said Mike. "I guess you're finished."

Steve looked surprised. "I am?"

"Yeah, you are," Mike said irritably. "And go study your SAT's."

It had to happen all this weekend, Mike thought. Perhaps he should do the coming out next week instead. But no; there was always a later. There was only one now. It was also either the best time or the worst time, and Mike only wished he knew which.

He had been afraid that his mother was going to opt for a takeout dinner again, but at around three, she took out a large chunk of minced meat from the refrigerator and began chopping up ginger. Mike felt relieved, even though he knew the sense of peace was more fragile than an illusion. An illusion required at least someone's belief; none of them, he knew, was stupid enough not to feel the heaviness in the air.

Steve announced that he was heading out for a movie with his dad. "Elaine's going to meet us there," he yelled after his mother had grudgingly agreed.

"Did you do any studying this morning?" she demanded. "Steve?"

But Steve was already out the door. From the kitchen, Mike watched his father slip on his loafers, check his pockets, and leave.

"I tell you, he's going to fail his tests," his mother muttered as she attacked the minced meat with a cleaver. "How can he not fail? All day long, if it isn't playing computer games, it's talking to his girlfriend on his phone. What kind of girl would want a man like that?"

Mike slipped away during a pause. He went to his room, pushed open his laptop screen, and checked his email. Still no word from Winston. He pushed his laptop away and stared at the doorway, the wall that seemed too close, the ceiling that was lower than he remembered.

Suppose he walked down the hall, sat at the kitchen table, and said, Mom, I've something to tell you. Something important.

His mother would speak after a pause. What is it? she'd ask. And he would say- Should he apologize before or after? After, he decided. Mom, I'm gay.

The scene dissolved. It was as though a bridge had crumbled while he was halfway across. What would she say? How would she react? Would she already know? Inconsequently: would she still cook dinner, or would this merit a takeout?

Mike sat back down. He would not tell her now. There was still too much time between now and when he would go back to Berkeley. He listened to his heart, which had quickened to something as insubstantial as imagination. It mingled with the sound of the chopping board as well as his mother's shuffling feet. It would be easiest if he yelled it in the doorway as he was leaving, as Steve had done.

Mike pushed up his laptop screen, idly checked his email, closed his browser, and hauled out his economics textbook for some belated studying. He did have a lot of work to catch up on.

"How was the movie?"

"It was crap," Steve said.

Typical Steve response, Mike thought. "What did you guys watch?"

"Some chick flick Elaine wanted to see. I don't even remember what it was called."

Mike glanced at the front door. "Where's Dad?"

"He's outside," Steve said.

Mike dawdled a bit in the kitchen. He stayed long enough to watch his father slowly open the door and shut it, pull off his loafers as though he were an old man. Mike felt another splinter of pity, and went back to his room to study.

Half a chapter and nearly an hour later, Mike heard his mom announcing that dinner was ready.

"Coming," he called. He turned to his laptop but shut it before he could be tempted to check his email again.

Steve sidled over and gave the dishes a once over.

"Meatballs," said Mike. "Your favorite."

"Nope, they're not my favorite."

"Oh? What is?"

"I dunno," said Steve, putting down a pair of chopsticks at each seat. "But not meatballs."

They fell silent when their mother took her seat and, without waiting, as was her habit, began to eat. "How was the movie, Steve?"

"It was okay," he said.

"I thought you said it was horrible," said Mike.

"Well, Elaine thought it was good."

"How was Elaine?" his mother asked. "Is she studying for her SATs?"

"I didn't ask her," Steve muttered into his rice bowl.

There was a pause after that, and Mike hoped his mom would not keep pressing Steve about SATs; his brother was being unusually civil.

"Where's your father?"

Mike and Steve shared a glance. "In the living room," Steve replied.

"Tell him to come and eat. And if he doesn't, that's up to him."

Steve eased out of his chair. It was his task to call stragglers to meals, because, as their mother said, he was the first to the table at every meal. Mike watched Steve go to the living room, where he was sure their father had heard every word.

"He says he's coming," Steve reported.

Another silence settled over the table. Mike picked through the avocado salad his mother had made. He found himself wondering what would happen if he blurted out then and there that he was gay. His father would hear it too. Told everyone over dinner, he might write to Winston. Went horribly, but could've been worse.

His father appeared a moment later and took his seat. The four of them proceeded to finish their meal in silence. Mike took his bowl to the sink, went back to his room, and listened to everyone else finish their dinners with movements and sounds that seemed part of a show he had seen countless times.

There was still no word from Winston. After staring at his empty buddy list for what felt like a deadening hour, Mike suddenly realized that he had not written anything either. He almost laughed at the irony; perhaps Winston was staring at his email inbox as well, waiting for him to write first. But he had nothing to write-nothing had happened, yet.

Or perhaps Winston was backing out.

Mike got up. It was exactly ten forty six. He could hear his mother in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Steve would be up for another hour or so. The television was on, but muffled. The entire house seemed to be an accomplice in the silence. Mike took a deep breath, let it out, and swallowed hard against his nerves as he stepped into the hallway.

As he had expected, his father was sitting in the living room with a wineglass in hand.

"Hi Dad."

His father's face brightened marginally. "Mike."

Mike attempted a smile and eased onto the couch, an easy distance from his father. The television was showing something from the History Channel, and Mike sat down just in time to see a black-and-white explosion tear a tank to shreds.

"Feel like a little TV?"

Mike considered. "Kind of." He watched another tank explode. A moment passed, and then another, and Mike found himself wishing he had thought ahead and prepared something to say.

It was his father who broke the silence. "Would you like some?"

Mike needed a moment before he realized his father was referring to the wine. He hesitated, and then nodded. "Sure." He got up before his father could. "I'll find a wineglass."

"They're in the top cabinet."

There were exactly three glasses. Mike took one down and decided to give it a rinse; some of those might not have been touched in years. He heard a door shutting at the other end of the hall. His mother was going to bed. She would wake up in the morning promptly at seven, as was her habit. The house felt even quieter.

Mike got back to the living room, and his father poured him half a glass. It was a Californian red wine, Mike noticed, almost the type Winston had gotten several nights ago. Was it two nights? Three? He could not remember.

"Thanks," Mike muttered.

His father nudged the remote a few times. "You can pick something else," he said.

Mike took the remote in his hand, put it back down, and gestured at the screen. "This is all right."

He was nervous. His mouth felt dry, and he was aware of his thumb and forefinger rubbing endless circles on the neck of the wineglass. He was not too nervous, however, to notice that his father seemed exhausted. A flash of uncertainty, or maybe guilt, wrenched a knot in his stomach, but it numbed quickly under his anxiety.

"You look pretty tired," said Mike, when the silence got too long.

"Yeah." A pause. "Jet lag."

He could say it now. Dad, I've something important to tell you. Dad, I need to tell you something. There's something important I want to tell you, Dad.

His father leaned forward and stood. Mike stared up blankly.

"You're right," his father said. "I should probably get some sleep. Don't stay up too late."

"Yeah."

His father stretched and reached down for his wineglass.

"Dad."

His father stopped. Mike took a deep breath, and discovered that it was harder than he imagined possible to force the words out of his mouth. "There's something important I want to tell you."

He felt rather than saw his father sit down on the couch. "Mike?"

"I'm gay."

His voice had sounded throttled, almost choked. The silence felt impossibly long. When Mike finally looked up, he found himself caught in a stare that he could only meet for a heartbeat.

"What?"

Mike licked his lips. "I'm gay."

"You're-okay." His father lifted a hand to his head, and then, without another work, walked away.

Mike stared. His father had just walked away. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but instead he looked down and felt as though someone had punched a hole through his stomach. This was it. He could imagine his father waking his mother, the two of them descending on him like harpies, telling him that he was wrong, he could not be gay, and Steve watching from the corner as he had that first time, long ago.

Mike set the wineglass on the table and clenched his knees with his hands. It would be over, he told himself. It would be okay, he would be leaving for Berkeley soon, and he would never need come back- The back of his eyes exploded suddenly with a sharp stinging sensation. He blinked rapidly; he would not cry.

There were footsteps. Mike's father was standing in the doorway, an inscrutable look on his face. His mouth was opened, as though to speak, but he shut it after a pause.

"I'm sorry." A pause. "You've-surprised me, that's all." He grimaced-or smiled, it was impossible to tell-and turned his gaze awkwardly to the opposite wall. A watercolor of peonies hung on the wall framed by wood that was painted dark green. An old painting. Mike was struck by the fact that the man standing opposite was, in that moment, a complete stranger to him. The feeling passed, however, when his father walked towards him and sat back on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, body angled so that he was facing Mike as much as he could without breaking the unspoken restraints of the strange yet familiar lamplight. Mike reached for his wineglass. His hand was shaking.

"Do you... want to talk about it?"

Mike took a sip of the wine. "Not-really." He paused, thinking. "I'm okay with it, myself. I think."

He watched his father from the corner of his eyes, waiting for him to move, say something, respond. "I tried telling Mom, once, when you were gone. It was a long time ago. I don't think she believed me." Mike paused, wondering momentarily why he was saying all this. "It was six years ago." There was another pause. "I didn't want her to tell you. I told her it was just a phase."

His father shifted. "Do you think it might be a phase?"

Mike considered it. "No." He thought of the party at Gil's place and the girl who had made sure to touch him more than was necessary. He thought of Winston having sex with him, having sex with his wife. "I don't think so."

His father made a noncommittal sound. Mike waited another moment, one that stretched longer than he expected, before saying, "Are you-" He stopped. The question was almost as difficult to ask as it had been to say those two words in the beginning-even worse, he thought. Mike ended up making some vague motions with his hands, as though that could shake his tongue back to life. "Okay with this?"

His father took a deep breath. "It's..." A brief motion with his own hands. "You have to admit it is a bit shocking. I would never imagined one of my sons was... like that."

Mike nodded and looked away. There had been too much hesitation on the last two words. He stared numbly at the television, expectantly.

"Have you had any... experiences?"

Mike felt the beginnings of an uncomfortable flush, but it died quickly under harsh yellow light of the standing lamp. "Sort of." He really did not want to bring up Petch. There was no way he was going to mention Winston.

There was another pause. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"Yeah," said Mike, more tersely than he meant. "I just wanted to let you know." He saw, still from the corner of his eyes, his father nod.

Then he stood up. "Well, if you ever want to talk about it..."

Mike nodded. Talk-to the voicemail answering message, he thought, and chided himself, half-heartedly, for being so cynical. He felt a little as though he had just finished an exhausting race without knowing who the winner was. His father hesitated another moment before they said good night to each other, and Mike was left with the history channel warbling over with the sound of his father's footsteps going slowly down the hall.

Mike tried to sort out what he was feeling. All he was certain of was that he doubted he could get any sleep that night. He had done it. He had just come out to his father. He half wanted to leave the house and take a walk-clear his head with the chilly air outside, or even take a run. But he was too tired. Exhausted. His body was on the edge of collapsing into a shaking, quavering mess.

Mike picked up both wineglasses-his father had left his-and took them to the kitchen. There was not a lot of wine in his glass, so he finished his as quickly as he could, making faces when he went too fast. Then he turned off the television and stepped into the hall, just in time to see Steve's door swing shut.

A moment's hesitation later, Mike knocked on his brother door and pushed it open.

"Hey," he said. Steve was sitting on his bed with a bunch of cards spread out around him. They were probably Pokemon or Yu-Gi-Oh, or whatever it was that Steve was interested in at the moment. "Kind of late, isn't it?"

Steve muttered something back. He was staring intently at a book he had open on his pillow, and every so often looked back at one of the cards. There were books all over the floor, Mike noticed, including some that he only just realized were missing from his own room.

"Are you going to out with Elaine tomorrow?"

This caught Steve's attention. "Yeah, maybe."

Mike nodded. "You guys had health class in ninth grade right? Learned about, uh, safe sex and everything?"

When the shock passed, Steve's face looked caught between mortification and irritation. "Uh. Yeah. Look, Elaine and I, we've never-"

"Yeah," Mike cut in, "but, uh, if you decide to do it, you should use condoms. Really important." He paused, as a thought occurred to him. "Dad hasn't talked to you about this, has he?"

"No," Steve said flatly, as though the answer were obvious.

Mike nodded. "Good that I'm here, then," he muttered. "I'm not going to tell you to wait until you get married, or something, but you know, if you're ever going to do it, you should get condoms. Or ask me to get you some."

"Have you done it?"

Steve's voice was challenging .Mike hesitated only a moment. "Yes, but that's none of your business."

He lingered in the doorway a moment longer. What he really wanted to know was if Steve had overheard his conversation with his dad, but he was too tired or simply did not care, or dare, to ask.

"Good night," said Mike, and shut the door quietly as he left.

There was still no word from Winston, but Mike felt only a moment's unhappiness before he started typing. He wrote quickly, ignoring both grammar and the feeling that none of the words were capturing even a shadow of what had happened. He read over what he written only once. After only a moment's thought, he added PS Good luck!, pressed send, and leaned back against the wall. There was one more day. Winston would surely reply by then. He would have to. Mike wished that he believed it himself.

He knew he had woken up from a dream, but all he was aware of was the cold sweat that was seeping from under his arms, behind his knees and elbows. The sheets felt oddly thin. His blanket had somehow turned the other way, so that his feet were now sticking out cold and exposed at the end.

He was adjusting his bed when he paused. He could hear something from down the hall. It sounded like the television, but he was certain he had turned it off before going to bed.

He peered at the clock and groaned; it was half past three. And he was thirsty.

Mike eased himself out of bed and padded groggily down the hall. He helped himself to a cup of water and turned, not at all expecting to find his mother on the sofa, her head back and eyes closed, evidently asleep.

"Mom?" he whispered.

She was wearing her nightgown and a sweater over that, and had her legs wrapped up in a quilt. Her hands were folded in her lap in a way that reminded Mike of the Buddha statues he had seen in Chinatown curio shops. He spotted the remote on the couch next to her hand and picked it up, turned the television off. The sudden darkness made him pause, and he rubbed his bare arms as his eyes adjusted.

"Mom?" he whispered again.

His mother stirred, and a frown appeared on her face as she turned her head to her left, right, left. Mike drew back. It was not his place to shoo his mother back to bed. He wondered if his father had told her about him, but decided he probably had not. He wondered if his parents had even said anything to each other before pretending to have fallen asleep.

In the end, he put the remote back on the couch, checked to make sure his mother was wearing socks, and went back to bed. He wondered how much his mother remembered and if she would believe him now. He wondered what his father truly felt, if his father even cared with something stronger than the gestures of caring. He wondered if this would ruin his parents' marriage, or if maybe the whole thing was important him alone, and was blown to such enormous proportions solely in his mind. He wondered if Winston had told. His thoughts began to narrow like a funnel of water above the drain. He wished Winston were holding him, sleeping next to him, listening to him. He wished he could be alone without feeling lonely. He closed his eyes tightly, briefly considered checking his email again, and decided to count sheep instead.

It was a long time before he could fall asleep.