Michael Chabon

My father was the moneyman for the Maggio family (the Bechsteins, like the Sterns and all the Jewish crime families, having long since dwindled and been absorbed), but he also served as a kind of liaison between the people in the capital and those in Pittsburgh. Coming to Pittsburgh was pleasure as much as business for my father; he had met my mother at a wedding in Squirrel Hill, and so had a lot of family here; he knew its streets and crazed beltway system and suburbs and golf courses, and was a long-standing Pirates fan. I had been to Forbes Field as a tiny boy, and to Three Rivers Stadium a thousand times. The day I kept track of an entire nine innings in my scorebook, without making a single mistake, he bought me two hundred dollars’ worth of toys at Kaufmann’s, far more toys than I had ever wanted.

“Pops, I met this new girl.”

He drained his glass of tonic water.

“Why do you make a face?” I said.

“After Claire, why shouldn’t I? I’m sorry, Art.”

“Sorry what?”

“Well, I have to confess that I don’t—I don’t trust you anymore. Art, you’ve become a very strange young man.”

“Dad.”

“Last time we met, you spoke like an insane person. What was all that nonsense? It was upsetting to hear you talk that way. I felt terrible. I was very shaken.”

My father had a way of looking as though he were about to weep but was making a superhuman effort to contain his tears, and it never failed to destroy me. I started to cry quietly as I chewed a wet and interminable piece of bread.

“Dad.”

“I don’t know what to think of you. I love you, of course, but—look what you’re doing this summer. What are you doing this summer? Working at that ridiculous bookstore. I can’t believe you’re satisfied by that kind of job.”

“Dad.”

Now that he really had me going, hiccuping and sniffling, so people turned around from their tables to look at this distinguished father speaking calmly to his wild-haired son in tears; now that he had reduced me to my childhood role and demonstrated to me just how far I had fallen in his esteem, he relented, tenderly, speaking as though I had just wrecked my bike or got beat up at school and he was softly applying the fragrant Band-Aid.

“Now, what about this new girl?”

“Oh, Dad,” I said.

The waiter came with our dinners, and I cried a little bit longer, and we hardly said a word until he asked if I wanted to leave. Then we rode down in the rattling funicular, and I watched the lights in the office buildings downtown grow less and less spectacular as we descended, and my father put his hand briefly on my shoulder and then took it away.

“You’d probably hate her, Pops; you’d probably hate everyone I know and everything I’m doing this summer”

“Yes, I probably would,” said my father.

“After I leave you I’m going to go to her house to sleep with her,” I said, and then we hit bottom and the sudden cessation of motion made me feel sick; my father said that he was not impressed.

10

SEX AND VIOLENCE

JUNE WANED; STILL JANE Bellwether remained in New Mexico, calling Cleveland only once, to tell him they were through (“Does that make nine times or ten?” Cleveland asked her); by the twenty-ninth of June, Phlox and I were firmly ensconced in a “thing” that she was—prematurely, I felt—calling love, although I was beginning to wonder, and listened one night to “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me” thinking: Oh, Smokey.

Phlox had taken to coming over to the Terrace every night after I got off work, and we would sit on the steps smoking cigarettes, and sometimes marijuana, or would drink tequila, and just eat the limes and lick the salt from the tiny pouches of each other’s hands. One night there was an enormous full moon, fat and hanging right above the horizon, as though too debauched and decrepit to rise any farther. We were stoned, and the black Romanesque steeple of the church on the corner stood silhouetted against the moon, entwined with the shapes of branches of a dead tree, like an establishing shot from a vampire film, and I said this. She pressed herself against me, her teeth chattering.

“Why are you afraid?” I said.

“I don’t know. Because vampires are so beautiful,” she said.

Another time she wept bitterly for an hour because Arthur had been cruel to her at work that day and told her she looked fat in her plaid dress.

“I know he’s just jealous of me,” she said. “Art, I know he wants you.”

“Nah,” I said. “He likes you.”

“Art!” she shouted. “Listen to me, and don’t baby me. I know he wants you, he wants to have sex with you, homosexual sex, disgusting homosexual sex with my Artichoke,” which was what she called me.

“Phlox, what do you have against gays? I like all the gay guys I’ve met, Arthur especially, but all of his friends too. They’re nice guys.”

“Sure they’re nice guys, they’re beautiful, and it’s a goddamn shame they’re a bunch of hideous fags. Some of them are more beautiful than I am.”

I denied this.