Michael Chabon

I guessed that he was right, that my feeling for Phlox, which I was calling love, could not really be the same as my feeling for Arthur, which I was also calling love. I thought of her clear broad forehead, and of her closet full of spectacular skirts, and of the perfume of her bedroom, and when this didn’t instantly move me to decision, I thought of her tenderness and care for me, of her so obvious and persistent affection. It seemed to me that I shouldn’t have to think so hard. Something stood between me and Phlox—perhaps it was myself—which made loving her a perpetual effort; she was a massive collection of small, ardent details that I struggled always to keep in mind, in a certain order, repeating the Phlox List over and over to myself, because if I forgot one particular of her smile or speech, the whole thing came to pieces. Perhaps I did not love Phlox, after all—I just knew her by heart. I had memorized my girlfriend.

Or perhaps it was presumptuous and conceited of me, and of Cleveland, to think that Phlox would really have me back. Perhaps she was calling it quits because it was, in fact, quits.

“Um, Cleveland—do you really not find it a big deal…”

“Find what?”

“That I—that I’m—that I might be…”

“Queer?” He set the letter on top of the Poe and stood up, stretching his arms wide, as though to embrace the entire gathering evening, and emitted, simultaneously, a belch and a fart. “Wow! Do that often enough and you implode.”

“Ha.”

“Queer as my oldest friend? As my father?”

“Um.”

“As a matter of fact, Bechstein, I don’t think that you are. In my corroded opinion, I think you’re just clowning around with your sexual chemistry set. But go ahead—give yourself a rest from the Evil Love Nurse. You can call her—how does she put it?—years from now, ‘when you have seen.’ ”

I protested that what I was doing was more serious than he thought. I wanted to express to him something of my feelings for Arthur, but I remembered all of his sodden protestations of love for Jane, and I kept silent. He stood in front of me, a few steps down, and I could barely make out his features in the near darkness.

“What did you do last night?” I said finally, anticipating another tale of excess and hilarity.

“Last night,” he said, as the hem of the blue, sky filled with purple, “I learned how to deactivate an alarm system.”

“Jesus.”

“Neat, huh?”

“No! What the hell for?”

“For a merit badge. What do you think? To get inside houses. Poon owns five jewelry stores in the Mon Valley.”

“He’s a fence.”

“He’s the biggest, Bechstein.”

“And you’re going to steal for him.” I stood up.

“Like the big time. No kidding—Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.”

I brushed past him, was halfway down the front steps, running away from my own house, when I turned to Cleveland, a vague shape in the light that filtered out from the distant kitchen.

“Cleveland, it’s illegal! It’s burglary. Burglary! You could go to jail.”

“Quiet.” He came down the steps toward me, and we faced each other tensely. “Sodomy,” he said.

That produced a long silence, toward the end of which he turned and went the rest of the way down the stairs.

“I didn’t get all upset and act like an asshole, either,” he said in a loud whisper. “I certainly could have. You seemed to expect it. So why don’t you just let me do what I want, and I’ll let you boys do what you want, and maybe that way we can all stay friends.” He started away, then turned toward me and whispered again. “And don’t get the idea that you can stop me.” He grabbed me by the shoulder and squeezed; it hurt. “Don’t try to blow the whistle on me.” He shook me once. “Don’t you go talking to the heavenly father.”

“Cleveland!”

“Quiet. Because I could just as easily blow the whistle on you.” With a snap of his wrist he released my shoulder, and I fell back against the steps.

“For God’s sake, Cleveland,” I whispered.

He brushed the hair from his eyes, quickly, looking embarrassed.

“All right, then. Thank you for the cheese sandwich. Good night.”