Page 93 of What Boys Learn

By the time we were seated at Ray’s, Curtis’s warmth had spilled over into uncharacteristic abandon. Maybe it was the effect of the funeral, as he claimed. Or maybe the stresses of work and family had pushed him past the point of compartmentalization. As we sipped our first glasses of red wine, he talked about problems up in Fond du Lac.

“Father’s estate is completely unmanageable. The house has eight bedrooms, he refuses to install a chair lift or restrict himself to the main floor, when he easily could. And the lawn, the gardens. Ridiculous. Of course, as a former doctor himself, Mattathias Curtis Campbell—”

“Mattathias?”

“Yes. Mattathias—daunting name, isn’t it?—has little interest in knowing what his son thinks about progressive dementia and the fact that he’s taken more falls in the last month than in the last three years.”

Curtis filled me in on the all-too-familiar pattern. No siblings; a father who had become difficult with nurses and housekeepers.

“For a while I felt good helping Dad get through this next stage of his life, and I was particularly grateful he was well enough to avoid a nursing home. But now I just worry all the time. We fight. He’s gotten mean, in a way he never was before. Petty. Selfish. I know it’s just his brain changing. I don’t want to admit it . . .”

He trailed off. The waitress brought a new carafe of Chianti to the table. I hadn’t noticed that we’d emptied the first one. “But here, let’s toast to friendship. I know you understand exactly what I’m going through.” We clinked, and then I let him talk me into staying for a late lunch to soak up the wine we were both drinking at reckless speed.

The oilcloth table covering was sticky. The breadsticks were doughy. The spaghetti sauce was too salty. And still, I was glad we’d picked Ray’s, because it was the only down-to-earth restaurant in town. Robert and I had eaten here many times, and from the dark booth Curtis and I had chosen, I could see across the mostly empty dining room to the two green padded barstools where Robert and I usually sat. He and I came for sports games—Bulls, Bears, Cubs, Blackhawks. No need for deep conversation when there was a goal, foul, or penalty to discuss. With Curtis, by contrast, it felt like I was spending time with a grown-up. No games or distractions required.

“Only a half glass,” I said, when he started to refill mine again. “Ladies’ room. ’Scuse me.”

I didn’t realize how tipsy I was until I stood up and wobbled through the maze of empty tables between our secluded alcove and the restrooms. In the bathroom, where I texted Benjamin, telling him not to expect me for a while, I came close to dropping my phone in the toilet. At the sink, I splashed too much, spraying droplets on my blouse.

I patted it dry with a paper towel. Then I peeked between the top buttons to check which bra I was wearing. A light pink one. Not too embarrassing. Relatively new. No stretched-out straps or safety pins.

You’re thinking of sleeping with him.

I shook my head, balled up the paper towel and tossed it into the garbage. Then I smoothed the back of the skirt, feeling for the high-cut panties that matched the bra. Also newish.

But you want to!

It had been years since I’d heard that drunken inner voice, laughing at me, but also daring me.

On the way back to the dining room, I passed the loud bar and did a double take. A man seated at the farthest padded barstool looked like Robert from behind. The same wide back and sloping shoulders. I stopped staring when two men stood up to cheer for a home run, blocking my view.

Back at the table, Curtis asked, “You all right?”

“Maybe I could use a coffee.”

When the waitress brought it, I poured in three sugars, then squinted toward the bar section again. Curtis made his own restroom visit and on return, slid into the booth next to me, the sides of our thighs touching.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For not leaving once you realized I was falling down a rabbit-hole of self-pity. I haven’t talked about my father to anyone else.” He drained his wine glass and clapped his hand over mine, pinning it to the tabletop. “A better son would be at his side now.”

“You need to leave town. You should, and you will.”

“On top of that . . . you and I.” He hesitated. “I shouldn’t have treated you as a patient—not even once.”

He pushed his hair back, leaving a few dark, scruffy pieces standing. He’d stuffed his tie into his jacket pocket and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, revealing a neck flushed red from sun or drink. I felt a twinge of guilt for liking him in this disheveled and vulnerable state, not that I wanted to see him in despair.

His hand remained cupped over mine. “You knew I was interested that day at the pool. I may run the occasional yellow light, but in every other way, I’m a rule follower. And you and I both know what the rules say.”

“Yes, we do,” I said, waiting for him to say the next part.Rules are meant to be broken.

Curtis squeezed my hand. “The man who took care of Dad’s lawn quit.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised by the change of subject. “Is that a big problem?”

“Dad gets upset when I try to help. If I had a young man with me, it would be different. Dad would see it as giving that young person a sense of direction. He’d go along.”